SCOUTS   OF 
THE    DESERT 

JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON 


SCOUTS  OF  THE  DESERT 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS  •   ATLANTA   •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

.THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OP  CANADA,  Lia 

TORONTO 


•*.•"•.        *•   •••.••   • 


SCOUTS 
OF  THE  DESERT 


BY 

JOHN   FLEMING  WILSON 


Jleto  gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1920 

All  Rights 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BT  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.         Published  October,  1920. 


XL. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

GETTING  NEXT  TO  TROUBLE    .....  3 

THE  PRICE  OF  CITIZENSHIP 40 

THE  VANISHED  CAR 70 

THE  MAGI  OF  THE  MOJAVE 102 

TREASURE  IN  THE  AIR  139 


4261 00 


SCOUTS   OF  THE  DESERT 


GETTING  NEXT  TO  TROUBLE 

WHEN  Sid  Moulton  left  Yaquina  Bay  to 
visit  his  Uncle  Joe  Moulton,  who  lived  in 
the  desert  region  of  Southern  California,  he 
traveled  to  San  Pedro  with  Captain  Ben  Lovett 
on  the  steam  schooner  White  Heron.  Not  satis- 
fied with  taking  his  guest  this  far,  the  captain  ac- 
companied Sid  from  the  harbor  to  Los  Angeles, 
where  he  was  to  take  the  train  to  Helen's  Station, 
the  nearest  point  to  the  Moulton  ranch. 

On  the  train  platform  Captain  Ben  drew  Sid 
aside  for  a  last  word  of  warning. 

"You're  mostly  sailorman,  Sid,"  he  told  him, 
"and  whenever  a  seafaring  man  leaves  the  sea 
he's  likely  to  find  difficult  navigation.  I  know 
you're  all  right  in  the  big  timber  and  along  the 

3 


4  Scouts  •&/  the  Desert 

coast.  But  the  desert  is  different  from  anything 
youVe  ever  known.  I've  been  there  a  few  times 
and  each  time  I've  felt  queer.  You'll  find  it 
queer.  You'll  find  the  desert  full  of  trouble,  too. 
Remember  one  thing:  when  there's  trouble 
ahead,  go  right  up  next  to  it." 

"You  mean,  don't  run  away,  sir?"  Sid  asked. 

"More  than  that,"  said  the  captain,  taking  off 
his  stiff  hat  and  staring  at  its  sleek  shape  with 
some  embarrassment.  "A  word  in  your  ear, 
Sid:  Most  all  of  us  are  afraid  of  trouble,  espe- 
cially when  it's  a  new  kind.  We  stand  off  and 
look  at  it  and  swear  at  it  and  talk  about  it  and 
get  all  heated  up  over  it  and  kick  because  we're 
up  against  it.  I've  found  that  you'd  best  not 
wait  for  trouble  to  find  you.  Get  next  to  it 
quickly.  It's  bound  to  come  and  it's  no  use 
pussyfooting  around  and  trying  to  stand  clear 
and  saying  how  terrible  it  is.  You  can  usually 
lick  it  if  you  get  right  up  to  it  and  tell  Mr. 
Trouble  you're  not  afraid  of  him  and  you've 
been  expecting  him  and  you're  happy  to  meet 
him.  Walk  right  up  to  Old  Man  Trouble  and 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  5 

say,  Well,  you're  here  and  I'm  here.  You're 
going  to  get  out.'  Then  get  smack  under  his 
guard  and  look  him  in  the  eye  and  smash  him. 
When  you  once  get  him  down  put  your  knee  in 
his  stomach  and  don't  let  him  up.  I  find  one 
wins  if  one  is  not  too  much  scared." 

Now  Captain  Lovett  was  a  man  of  skill, 
experience,  and  a  reputation  for  being  success- 
ful. Sid  made  up  his  mind  to  make  use  of  this 
rather  lengthy  advice  in  his  new  surroundings. 
But  the  train  was  ready  and  by  the  time  the 
scout  had  settled  himself  in  the. day  coach  and 
the  car  was  moving,  he  forgot  the  old  cap- 
tain in  the  changing  scene  that  slid  by  the  win- 
dow. But  there  was  to  come  a  day  very  soon 
when  Sid  Moulton  would  remember  Ben  Lovett 
and  take  heart  because  that  knowing  old  boy  had 
told  him  trouble  could  be  licked — if  you  didn't 
try  to  run  away. 

The  train  spent  a  couple  of  hours  going 
through  the  orange  groves  to  San  Bernardino 
and  then  hooked  on  another  engine  for  the  climb 
through  Cajon  Pass.  The  soft,  warm  air  began 


6  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

to  grow  dry  and  sparkling  as  Sid  found  himself 
looking  backward  on  the  country  they  were 
coming  up  from  and  when  he  reached  the  sum- 
mit he  was  excited.  Never  had  he  breathed  such 
air,  nor  felt  such  a  high,  dry,  exhilarating  wind 
as  poured  out  of  the  great  desert  that  extended  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  see,  dotted  with  buttes, 
rimmed  by  arid  mountain  ranges,  glistening  here 
and  there  in  the  distance  where  some  soda  lake 
lay  hard  and  rippleless,  baking  under  the  blaz- 
ing sun. 

For  half  an  hour  the  train  slipped  down,  first 
through  a  scant  forest  of  shrubby  junipers,  then 
into  a  queer,  thin  wood  of  yucca  palms  which 
stood  out  in  an  endless  variety  of  shapes,  throw- 
ing grotesque  shadows  over  the  greasewood  and 
sagebrush  that  dotted  the  sand.  It  entered  the 
little  gorge  of  the  Mojave  River  and  rattled  into 
Victorville.  This  town,  set  in  a  bowl  rimmed  by 
high  mesas  and  some  rocky  buttes,  Sid  knew  to 
be  only  sixteen  miles  from  Helen's  Station. 
During  the  ten  minutes  that  the  train  stopped 
he  got  out  and  stretched  his  legs  along  the  track 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  7 

and  felt  the  hot,  pungent  breath  of  the  desert  on 
his  face  and  the  mighty  slap  of  the  sun  on  his 
back.  Just  half  an  hour  later  he  was  deposited 
on  the  bare  gravel  of  Helen's  Station,  which  lies 
just  outside  the  cottonwoods  that  mark  the  di- 
minishing course  of  the  Mojave — the  only  river 
in  America  that  grows  feebler  as  it  gets  away 
from  its  source  and  finally  dies  in  mid-desert, 
drawing  its  waters  down  into  some  subterranean 
passage  whence  they  never  emerge  to  sight  of 
man  again. 

It  was  nearing  sunset,  and  the  day's  heat 
was  tempered  by  a  fine  wind  that  rustled  the 
sage  and  rippled  the  soft  sand.  To  the  scout, 
accustomed  to  the  humid,  chill  air  of  the  Ore- 
gon coast,  this  vivid  and  sparkling  breeze,  so 
dry,  so  pungent,  so  thin,  seemed  almost  unbreath- 
able.  He  felt  a  little  light-headed.  His  eyes 
smarted  from  the  glare.  His  heart  thumped  in 
his  breast.  But  almost  immediately  a  middle- 
aged  man  appeared,  dressed  in  cool  cotton  and 
browned  to  a  mahogany  tint.  Sid  recognized 
his  Uncle  Joseph. 


8  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

They  shook  hands  and  Mr.  Moulton  said  his 
wife  was  at  the  ranch  waiting  for  him.  Sid 
noticed  that  his  uncle  seemed  much  preoccupied, 
though  cordial.  He  stood  in  low-voiced  conver- 
sation with  two  men  who  had  also  met  the  train; 
the  little  group  seemed  concerned  about  some- 
thing which  kept  their  tones  lowered.  Presently 
Mr.  Moulton  left  them  and  joined  Sid  again. 

"The  car  is  right  here,"  he  remarked,  and  led 
the  way  to  a  stripped  roadster  with  a  box  for 
goods  behind.  He  wasted  no  time  but  started 
directly  off  along  a  rutted  road  fringed  with 
sage  and  mesquite.  For  the  next  mile  Sid  was 
busy  observing  the  fresh  scenery.  He  saw  that 
there  were  no  trees  whatever  anywhere,  except 
the  few  cottonwoods  near  the  station  and  by  the 
river  bank.  Everywhere  else  the  desert  lay  in 
rolling  hills  covered  with  the  sparsest  of  vegeta- 
tion. The  soil  was  a  mixture  of  rough  pebbles 
and  coarse  sand.  So  far  as  he  could  perceive 
there  was  no  sign  of  moisture  anywhere.  The 
road  wound  and  climbed  and  dipped  without 
any  attempt  at  leveling  it.  It  was  endlessly 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  9 

crooked.  Yet  every  turn  offered  the  same  pros- 
pect. And  all  this  dull-colored  waste  was  popu- 
lous. Lizards  darted  here  and  there,  or  sat  on 
little  stones  and  lifted  their  heads,  their  eyes 
shining.  Desert  rats  scurried  and  tumbled  across 
the  road.  Jack  rabbits  leaped  off  from  invisible 
forms.  Here  a  snake  was  coiled.  There  a  turtle 
stilted  along,  his  high-domed  shell  looking  like 
a  dull,  irregularly  marked,  and  dusty  stone  that 
had  suddenly  achieved  motion. 

All  this  wonderful  pageant  struck  Sid  as  mar- 
velous. He  glanced  at  his  uncle  to  see  whether 
he  noticed  it.  Mr.  Moulton  was  driving  steadily 
and  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  road.  There  was  a 
grim  set  about  his  lips. 

"Trouble  somewhere,"  Sid  thought  to  him- 
self, and  wondered  what  it  could  be.  But  as  his 
uncle  volunteered  nothing  he  did  not  ask. 

They  crossed  what  was  the  bed  of  the  Mojave 
through  deep,  soft  sand,  which  here  and  there 
showed  a  little  pool — the  last  of  the  river  that 
had  seemed  so  large  at  Victorville.  In  one  place 
they  traveled  over  an  especially  bad  place  on 


10  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

timbers  laid  lengthwise  like  rails.  Then  the  car 
scooted  up  the  slope  of  some  red  hills,  floun- 
dered in  deep  sand  over  a  wash,  and  resumed  its 
speed  on  a  hard,  dry  road  that  seemed  to  wind 
interminably  along  the  mesa.  Nothing  whatever 
was  in  sight. 

"How  far  is  it  to  Aunt  Mary's?"  Sid 
inquired. 

"Five  miles,  Sid."  Mr.  Moulton  pointed 
with  one  hand  into  the  distance.  The  scout 
strained  his  eyes.  He  knew  he  was  looking  into 
a  distance  where  objects  thirty  miles  off  were 
plain.  But  he  could  not  pick  out  a  single  spot 
that  differed  in  color  or  aspect  from  the  plain, 
drab  green  of  the  desert  through  which  they 
were  traveling. 

"You  can't  see  it  till  you're  almost  on  it,"  his 
uncle  explained.  "That's  a  peculiarity  of  this 
country;  you  can  see  for  leagues,  the  air  is  so 
clear.  But  anything  close  to  the  ground  is 
invisible  till  you're  almost  on  it — except  before 
sunrise." 

Sid  was  about  to  ask  the  reason  for  this  odd 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  11 

statement  about  sunrise,  but  Mr.  Moulton  was 
continuing. 

"That's  what  makes  the  desert  dangerous  for 
a  tenderfoot.  He  doesn't  realize  that  the  min- 
ute he  gets  out  of  sight  of  his  place  he  can't  find 
it  again  by  sight.  He  has  to  reason  out  its  loca- 
tion. Many  a  man  gets  lost  by  simply  going  for 
a  walk  through  the  brush.  Before  he  knows  it 
he's  lost  all  landmarks." 

"How  do  you  find  any  one  who  gets  lost  out 
here?"  Sid  asked,  getting  right  to  the  point. 

"I  wish  I  knew,"  was  the  reply. 

Sid  considered  this.  "Anybody  you  know  lost, 
uncle?" 

Mr.  Moulton  nodded  and  increased  the  speed 
impulsively.  In  a  few  moments  the  car  suddenly 
opened  out  a  bare  patch  of  desert  wire-fenced 
and  with  a  well  derrick  and  pump  house  in  a 
corner. 

"Here's  where  we  get  our  water,  Sid,"  his 
uncle  explained.  "The  house  is  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  further  on." 

The  low,  one-story  house  soon  came  into  sight. 


12  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Sid  saw  that  it  was  different  from  any  house  he 
had  seen.  In  the  first  place  it  looked  almost  as  if 
it  had  walls  that  one  could  see  through  in  a  dim 
sort  of  way — it  was  screened  all  around,  and  the 
living  rooms  all  opened  on  this  broad  porch,  so 
that  every  bit  of  air  that  stirred  would  enter  and 
cool  the  air.  Its  roof  looked  rather  flat  but  sub- 
stantial and  there  was  absolutely  no  chimney. 
He  was  shortly  to  discover  that  the  Moultons 
had  taken  a  leaf  from  the  book  of  the  old  Span- 
ish settlers  and  made  what  was  practically  two 
houses  in  one:  an  inside  one  for  cool  nights  and 
winter  days,  and  an  outside  one  for  the  hours  of 
heat. 

His  aunt  welcomed  him  heartily,  with  her  eyes 
on  her  husband.  Now  Sid  knew  for  certain  that 
he  had  arrived  at  a  time  when  trouble  was  heavy 
on  the  Moulton  family.  But  still  he  waited. 
Presently  he  was  seated  at  table  in  one  side  of 
the  porch  and  looking  directly  out  on  the  western 
mountains  which  seemed  to  rise  with  a  great, 
smooth  sweep  from  the  plain  to  the  sky.  A  few 
stars  already  shone  brightly.  The  wind  was  dry 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  13 

and  made  the  brush  give  out  a  kind  of  whistling, 
dreary  note,  like  the  rustling  of  metallic  wings. 
His  plate  was  loaded  with  rabbit,  hot  biscuits 
and  gravy,  sweet  potatoes,  and  he  saw  melons, 
dripping  with  moisture,  piled  up  on  a  sideboard. 
Just  above  him  an  olla  hung  in  a  leathern  sling. 
His  aunt  was  inquiring  eagerly  for  news  of  his 
own  family.  But  Sid  observed  that  she  ate  noth- 
ing and  that  his  uncle  made  a  small  meal  after 
his  long  drive.  It  was  dark  when  they  were 
through.  Mr.  Moulton  lit  a  couple  of  lamps 
and  brought  fresh  water  in  for  the  olla  and  fed 
the  dogs.  Still  the  silence  hung  heavily  between 
the  intervals  when  either  of  the  old  people 
forced  themselves  to  talk.  Sid  remembered  what 
Ben  Lovett  had  said.  He  glanced  anxiously  at 
his  uncle  and  said,  "Did  you  tell  me  somebody 
you  knew  was  lost,  sir?" 

His  Aunt  Mary  suddenly  sat  down  and  looked 
very  white  and  tired. 

"I'm  sorry  about  it,  Sid,"  Mr.  Moulton 
answered.  "We'd  hoped  to  give  you  the  cheery 
welcome  you  deserve.  But  one  of  our  neighbors 


14  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

has  met  with  misfortune,  and  your  aunt  feels 
that  it's  our  fault  in  a  way." 

"We  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  let 
the  Boyles  hire  old  Asbestos  Pete,"  Mrs.  Moul- 
ton  said  sadly.  She  turned  to  Sid.  "The  Boyles 
came  here  from  the  East  just  a  month  ago  and 
settled  about  two  miles  from  us.  They  came  to 
the  desert  because  of  their  health.  They  wanted 
some  one  to  help  about  the  place  and  your  uncle 
and  I  couldn't  think  of  anybody  but  an  old  desert 
rat  people  call  Asbestos  Pete." 

"We  never  supposed  Boyle  would  be  so  silly 
as  to  believe  Pete's  wild  tales,"  his  uncle  put  in. 

"About  some  wretched  asbestos  mine,"  Mrs. 
Moulton  went  on.  "He's  told  that  story  to  every 
one  who  will  listen  for  years  and  years.  Mr. 
Boyle  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  think 
anything  about  it." 

"He  went  to  find  it?"  Sid  asked. 

His  uncle  nodded.  "We  think  so.  We  don't 
know.  He  told  Mrs.  Boyle  he  was  going  away 
for  a  couple  of  days  and  he  would  bring  her  back 
her  birthday  present — her  birthday  was  to-day. 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  15 

That's  all  Mrs.  Boyle  told  us,  but  she  let  fall 
that  her  husband  had  been  talking  about  going 
to  find  old  Pete's  lost  mine  some  day.17 

"Did  this  old  Pete  give  him  a  map  of  the 
country?'1  §jd  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  his  uncle. 

"Then  it  ought  to  be  easy  to  follow  Mr.  Boyle 
up." 

"It  would,"  Mr.  Moulton  remarked  dryly,  "if 
it  weren't  for  the  fact  that  Asbestos  Pete  is  crazy 
and  the  maps  he  draws  have  no  counterpart  in 
this  country  at  all.  Boyle  would  have  found  this 
out,  but,  like  many  tenderfeet,  he  thought  Pete 
was  square  and  also  believed  that  men  would  try 
to  do  Pete  and  himself  out  of  the  mine  if  he 
talked  about  it.  Being  an  utter  stranger  here  he 
couldn't  know  that  Pete's  descriptions  and  draw- 
ings are  never  the  same  and  no  man  could  ever 
find  his  way  for  ten  miles  by  them.  In  other 
words,  Sid,  a  very  nice  neighbor  of  ours  has 
vanished  into  the  desert  with  only  water  and 
food  for  two  days  at  the  utmost,  and  he  has  gone 
on  a  wild-goose  chase  and  no  one  has  any  notion 


16  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

what  old  Pete  told  him  or  the  directions  he  gave 
him.  Pete  has  one  of  his  moody  fits  and  won't 
talk  at  all,  except  to  defy  us." 

" Where  is  this  Asbestos  Pete?"  Sid  asked. 

"At  the  Boyle  place,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  he  won't  tell  where  Mr.  Boyle  has  gone, 

ci  r>" 

SAX  I 

"His  poor  old  cracked  head  thinks  we  are 
trying  to  cheat  him  out  of  his  asbestos  mine, 
Sid." 

"We  ought  to  have  warned  the  Boyles!"  Mrs. 
Moulton  cried. 

"Who  would  suppose  any  sane  man  would 
believe  his  wild  stories?"  her  husband  re- 
sponded. "He's  harmless  and  does  his  work 
reasonably  well.  Boyle  is  a  fool." 

"A  tenderfoot,"  his  wife  answered  gently. 

"Have  you  searched  for  Mr.  Boyle  at  all?" 
Sid  inquired. 

"Yes.  But  there  aren't  many  of  us  who  know 
the  desert  at  all  well,  Sid.  And  we  don't  even 
have  an  idea  which  way  he  went.  This  desert 
is  a  mighty  big  place.  I  just  came  in  in  time  to 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  17 

go  and  get  you  at  the  station.  It's  a  hopeless  job. 
Boyle  may  be  lucky  enough  to  stay  in  some  road 
or  follow  a  trail  and  meet  some  one.  On  the 
other  hand  he  may  have  got  lost  within  an  hour 
after  he  started  out.  He  had  twenty-four  hours' 
start  of  us." 

Sid  got  up  and  gazed  out  on  the  desert  over 
which  an  almost  full  moon  was  now  rising 
swiftly.  The  mountains  on  the  horizon  had  van- 
ished; he  saw  only  an  infinite  expanse  of  waste, 
shimmering  in  the  bright  light  like  a  lake, 
shadowed  here  and  there,  but  shoreless.  And 
somewhere  out  in  its  luminous  depths  the  wind 
was  beating  its  metallic  wings  with  a  low, 
melancholy  note. 

"How  far  could  he  have  got  by  this  time,  sir?" 

His  uncle  shook  his  head.  "Figure  it  your- 
self— thirty  miles,  maybe.  Take  that  as  the 
radius  of  a  circle  and  you  have  twenty-eight 
hundred  miles  you  might  have  to  travel  to  find 
him.  Remember,  you  can't  see  or  hear  a  man  a 
half  a  mile  out  here,  unless  there's  a  mirage." 

"I  know  what  a  mirage  is  at  sea,  sir,"  the 


18  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

scout  said.  "But  out  here — I  don't  know  what 
you  mean." 

Mrs.  Moulton  explained  that  before  the  sun 
rose  there  was  frequently  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
when  the  whole  desert  seemed  to  rise  around  the 
ranch  like  the  edges  of  a  bowl  and  they  could 
sometimes  see  cabins  ten  miles  away,  or  a  wild 
horse  five  miles  away,  or  even  a  pack  train  fif- 
teen miles  away.  "But  when  the  sun  comes  up 
over  the  horizon  it  all  disappears,  Sid." 

They  talked  this  over  for  an  hour.  Then  Mr. 
Moulton  got  up  wearily  and  said  he  would  make 
a  last  trip  to  the  Bolyes'  place  to  inquire  for 
news. 

"And  Sid  will  go  to  bed,"  said  his  aunt,  "for 
he  must  be  very  tired." 

The  scout  felt  like  anything  but  bed,  but 
obeyed  and  was  soon  comfortably  installed  on  a 
cot  in  a  corner  of  the  porch.  He  saw  the  car 
lights  vanish  into  the  glorious  shimmer  of  the 
moon  and  lay  thinking  over  the  problem  that 
the  story  of  the  Boyles  had  propounded.  He 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  19 

was  awake  when  his  uncle  returned  to  tell  his 
wife  that  Mrs.  Boyle  had  no  news. 

"Old  Pete  is  still  sullen,"  he  added,  in  a  low 
tone.  "You  know  it  only  makes  him  worse  to 
irritate  him  with  questions." 

"I  wonder  if  Pete  ever  did  discover  an  asbes- 
tos mine?"  Mrs.  Moulton  sighed. 

"He  spent  years  enough  prospecting,"  was  the 
reply.  "But  if  he  ever  did,  he's  forgotten  all  the 
details.  They  say  he's  been  crazy  for  years — ever 
since  he  was  picked  up  almost  dead  with  thirst 
beyond  Old  Woman's  Springs." 

Sid  heard  this  and  began  to  think  harder  than 
ever,  with  the  result  that  he  went  to  sleep  and 
knew  nothing  until  he  wakened  in  chill  dark- 
ness, wholly  conscious,  and  his  mind  clear.  How 
it  happened  he  could  not  tell;  but  he  thought 
he  had  solved  the  problem  of  finding  Mr.  Boyle. 
It  struck  him  that  in  such  a  pinch  no  time  should 
'be  lost.  Should  he  waken  his  uncle  and  aunt  and 
tell  them?  He  sat  up  and  looked  for  the  moon. 
Its  shadow  told  him  that  it  was  after  three 


20  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

o'clock.  He  shivered  in  the  cold  wind  and  hesi- 
tated. But  he  knew  that  hours  must  count.  He 
got  up  and  roused  Mr.  Moulton. 

"I  want  to  have  a  try  to  find  Mr.  Boyle,"  the 
scout  said  quietly.  "I  have  an  idea." 

Mr.  Moulton  got  up  and  led  the  way  inside 
where  he  lit  the  oil  stove  and  put  the  kettle  on. 
"I  can't  sleep  anyway  with  this  tragedy  hanging 
over  us,"  he  remarked.  "If  you  have  an  idea, 
out  with  it." 

"You  know  I've  been  scouting  for  some  time, 
sir,"  Sid  said  modestly.  "The  desert  is  new  to 
me.  But  I  think  my  notion  is  a  good  one  and  I 
am  willing  to  try  it." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  his  uncle  said  promptly. 
"I  am  going  to  make  another  try,  anyway." 

"I'll  have  to  do  this  alone,"  Sid  said  earnestly. 

"You're  as  foolish  as  Boyle,"  his  uncle 
responded. 

But  Sid  knew  his  own  mind  and  when  he  had 
explained  just  what  he  was  going  to  try  to  do 
Mr.  Moulton  became  thoughtful.  At  last  he 
said,  "Very  well.  I  warn  you  it  will  be  a  ter- 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  21 

rific  task.  You  have  no  idea  of  what  it  means. 
But  if  you  will  promise  one  thing,  I'll  let  you 
go." 

"Certainly  I'll  promise,"  was  the  reply. 

"Leave  a  trail  I  and  others  can  follow,  Sid. 
We  won't  interfere.  We'll  give  you  six  hours' 
start,  at  least.  But  if  you  reach  the  end  of  your 
resources  you  will  know  that  we  are  behind 
you.  If  need  be  you  can  turn  on  your  steps  and 
come  back  the  way  you  came — so  long  as  you  are 
absolutely  sure  of  your  trail.  But  you  must 
promise  that  if  you  get  lost  you  will  remain 
exactly  where  you  are  when  you  stop  the  first 
time.  I  want  you  to  understand  that /it  is  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  back-track  on  the 
desert.  There  is  risk  that  even  I  and  others  who 
are  accustomed  to  it  may  miss  you.  I  hate  to  let 
you  go.  But  I  know  your  oath.  I  respect  it. 
Go  ahead." 

In  half  an  hour  Sid  had  eaten  a  hearty  break- 
fast and  been  provided  with  a  sack  of  provisions 
and  two  canteens  of  water.  Mr.  Moulton  then 
took  him  in  the  car,  with  the  lights  out,  to  within 


22  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

a  mile  of  the  Boyle  place.  When  the  scout  had 
got  out  and  stood  under  the  dark  sky  whence 
the  moon  was  departing,  his  uncle  leaned  out 
and  shook  hands. 

"You'll  find  Pete  staying  in  a  little  shanty  at 
the  far  corner  of  the  Boyle  place.  You  say  you 
want  to  come  on  him  by  surprise  and  have  hiiri 
know  that  nobody  else  is  with  you.  I'll  tell  Mrs. 
Boyle  later  about  it.  Good  luck,  Sidl" 

The  car  turned  round  and  vanished  almost 
instantly.  In  that  few  seconds  of  time  Sid  found 
that  he  had  almost  lost  his  sense  of  the  direction 
he  ought  to  go.  But  he  had  marked  the  compass 
direction  and  the  road  led  lightly  towards  the 
Boyles',  though  crossed  and  recrossed  with  other 
ruts.  However,  he  managed  to  keep  the  main 
trail  and  soon  emerged  into  what  is  known  on 
the  Mojave  as  a  "clearing" — where  the  sand  is 
scraped  clean  of  brush  and  sage  and  plowed  for 
planting.  He  stood  still  on  the  edge  of  it  till 
he  had  picked  out  the  dim  shadow  of  the  Boyle 
house  (with  a  lamp  glimmering  in  a  window 
where  the  wife  kept  her  lonely  watch)  and 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  23 

another  small  blocklike  shadow  which,  he  knew, 
was  Asbestos  Pete's  shanty.  Towards  the  latter 
he  made  his  way  quickly,  though  the  soft  sand 
hindered  his  progress  and  made  him  breathe 
quickly.  He  found  the  old  man  seated  in  his 
doorway,  like  a  gaunt,  gray  shadow.  In  the  dusk 
his  eyes  shone  like  black  mirrors. 

Within  ten  feet  of  him  Sid  stopped.  His  whole 
scheme  depended  on  Pete's  being  actually  crazy 
and  subject  to  illusions.  If  his  first  approach 
failed  his  plan  fell  to  the  ground.  The  scout 
drew  his  breath  stoutly  and  went  forward,  mak- 
ing the  peace  sign. 

He  saw  that  his  noiseless  coming  was 
observed.  The  figure  in  the  doorway  stirred.  A 
skinny  hand  was  lifted  and  returned  the  sign 
plainly.  Sid  came  near  and  stood  still  and  silent. 
It  was  his  cue  to  wait  till  the  old  fellow  spoke. 

For  a  full  ten  minutes  the  scout  remained 
stock-still,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Pete.  And  all  that 
time  the  old  prospector  glared  at  him  intensely, 
suspiciously.  Here  was  an  utter  stranger,  rising 
out  of  the  desert  to  make  a  single  sign  and  then 


24  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

wait.  As  Sid  had  reckoned,  the  old  man  was 
seized  with  the  notion  that  this  was  an  extraor- 
dinary occasion.  It  was  plain  that  before  long 
he  would  have  interpreted  it.  If  he  interpreted 
this  weird  visit  as  Sid  hoped  and  prayed  he 
would,  the  rest  would  be  clear  sailing.  But  the 
strain  was  horrible. 

Suddenly  Pete's  face  twitched  dreadfully  and 
his  voice  came  from  his  dark  lips  like  a  croak. 

"You  died  twenty-two  years  ago  come  next 
month." 

Sid  repeated  the  peace  sign  slowly  and  sig- 
nificantly. 

Pete  got  up  and  peered  at  him.  His  meager 
limbs  were  shaking. 

"You  don't  hold  it  agin  me?"  His  voice  broke. 
He  swallowed  and  resumed,  "Ye  don't  hold  it 
agin'  me — pard?" 

Sid  turned  and  swung  his  arm  out  in  a  wide 
gesture,  coming  to  a  point  at  a  star  in  the  north. 
Pete  shambled  forward  and  his  eyes  bored  into 
the  boy's.  Then  he  sighed  and  whispered,  in  an 
appalling  voice,  "Ye  came  after  me?" 

".We  must  hurry,"  Sid  answered  him,  also  in 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  25 

a  whisper.  "We  must  hurry — before  others  get 
ahead  of  us." 

Insanity  rang  in  the  old  man's  voice  and 
froze  Sid's  blood:  "Yes,  we'll  go  back  to  the 
same  old  spot,  you  and  me,  pard." 

It  needed  no  acting  on  the  scout's  part  to  utter 
"Now"  in  a  ghastly  tone. 

In  three  minutes  the  two  of  them  were  stealth- 
ily making  their  way  across  the  little  clearing 
and  into  the  brush.  Sid  glanced  back.  Mrs. 
Boyle's  little  light  still  glimmered  in  the  dark- 
ness, sign  that  she  waited  for  her  husband's 
return.  He  quickly  noted  the  stars.  Pete  was 
leading  directly  off  in  a  northerly  direction.  As 
he  smelt  the  dawn  the  boy  drew  back  slowly,  till 
an  interval  of  a  hundred  feet  separated  himself 
and  his  unconscious  guide.  He  determined  to 
come  to  no  closer  quarters  unless  it  was  neces- 
sary. He  must  maintain  the  illusion  that  he  was 
the  returned  form  of  the  prospector's  long-dead 
partner.  He  knew  that  his  scout's  dress  made 
the  picture  pretty  convincing  to  a  man  long 
obsessed  with  delusions. 

"Lucky  for  me  I  caught  that  sentence  about 


26  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Asbestos  Pete's  having  been  found  wandering 
almost  dead  not  far  from  the  body  of  a  young 
chap  who  had  been  prospecting  with  him,"  Sid 
thought.  "I  wish  I  knew  that  fellow's  name  and 
who  he  was." 

The  sun  began  to  lighten  the  eastern  sky  and, 
remembering  what  his  uncle  and  aunt  had  told 
him  of  the  mirage,  he  kept  a  good  lookout. 
Presently  when  he  glanced  behind  him  he  was 
amazed  to  see  the  Moulton  ranch,  apparently  a 
short  mile  away,  and  the  Boyle  place  close  beside 
it.  He  detected  his  uncle  outside  with  the  dogs. 
He  saw  Mrs.  Boyle  peering  out  under  the  sharp 
of  her  hand.  Then  he  followed  on  after  the  old 
man,  who  was  plunging  along  unweariedly,  fol- 
lowing some  strange  sense  of  direction  with  ease, 
as  a  dog  runs  down  a  scent.  The  sun  rose  swiftly, 
and  in  its  sudden  heat  the  desert  swallowed 
everything  up  again  except  the  objects  immedi- 
ately in  their  path. 

All  morning  Asbestos  Pete  kept  doggedly  on. 
Sid  could  see  that  the  old  fellow  was  almost 
exhausted.  Now  and  again  he  stumbled.  The 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  27 

scout  himself  was  panting  and  cruelly  tortured 
by  thirst.  But  he  was  aware  that  he  must  not 
pause  even  to  drink.  Now  and  then  Pete  would 
cast  a  hasty  and  searching  glance  behind  him. 

"He  thinks  I'm  haunting  him,"  Sid  thought, 
and  then  let  his  mind  race  on  to  Boyle.  He 
figured  that,  after  all,  Pete  had  told  Boyle  the 
truth  so  far  as  his  cracked  brain  conceived  it. 
In  fact,  Boyle  was  certainly  not  wholly  a  fool. 
He  had  been  convinced  that  the  mine  was  a  fact, 
and  within  reach.  He  had  also  agreed  to  Pete's 
terms  of  keeping  it  a  secret  from  all.  But  had 
'Boyle  come  this  way?  Was  Pete  now  going  in 
the  direction  he  had  told  Boyle  to  go? 

This  question  became  urgent.  Sid  strained  his 
eyes  to  see  any  track  of  another.  The  prospector 
was  leading  him  now  in  an  apparently  aimless 
but  really  straight  course,  and  so  far  they  had 
fallen  into  no  trail  or  semblance  of  one. 

At  noon  Sid's  heart  leaped.  They  came  to  the 
tracks  of  a  man  traveling  quickly,  and  in  the 
same  direction  they  were  going.  Pete  observed 
this  and  began  to  lag.  Sid  saw  that  he  was  anx- 


28  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

ious  for  him  to  come  up.  He  kept  the  interval 
carefully.  And  at  last  the  old  man  boldly  took 
up  the  new  trail  and  pushed  on. 

For  another  hour  they  kept  up  this  queer  pro- 
cession. Sid  felt  his  strength  boiling  away,  so 
to  speak.  His  throat  was  swelling,  the  calves  of 
his  legs  began  to  ache  unbearably,  and  he  saw 
dark  blots  floating  before  his  eyes.  The  figure 
of  the  man  ahead  of  him  began  to  grow  vague 
and  wavering.  But  he  kept  his  mind  on  the 
tracks  that  they  followed  and  presently,  by  an 
effort,  he  detected  the  truth :  the  man  they  fol- 
lowed had  set  a  compass  course.  Sid,  with  a 
grunt  at  his  own  forgetfulness,  got  his  own  out 
and  observed  the  direction.  It  was  eight  degrees 
east  of  north.  An  hour  later  it  marked  the  same. 
He  saw  far  ahead  a  single  landmark,  a  bare, 
scarred  butte  with  a  notch  in  the  west  side  of  it. 
He  waited  till  he  saw  the  old  man  glance  back 
over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  he  was  coming  and 
then  quickly  withdrew  from  the  dim  trail  and 
threw  himself  down  in  the  scant  shade  of  a 
mesquite  bush.  He  drank  some  water — pnlv 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  29 

enough  to  wash  out  his  throat — and  ate  some 
bread  and  butter.  He  rested  for  twenty  minutes. 
Then  he  went  on,  infinitely  refreshed.  An  hour 
later  he  caught  sight  of  the  old  man  again.  Pete 
had  stopped  and  was  staring  round  him.  Sid 
quickened  his  pace  till  he  had  closed  the  interval 
to  a  hundred  yards  and  was  rejoiced  to  see  his 
crazy  guide  start  on.  The  course  was  still  eight 
degrees  east  of  north.  The  tracks  of  the  man  he 
supposed  and  hoped  was  Boyle  were  still  visible. 

Towards  sundown  they  reached  the  foot  of  the 
butte  that  rose  to  the  sky  in  one  tremendous  out- 
burst of  raw,  volcanic  rock.  Here  Sid  realized 
that  he  was  in  difficulties.  The  hard  and  jagged 
surface  showed  no  tracks  at  all.  But  Pete  seemed 
not  to  hesitate.  He  climbed  up  the  long  slope 
to  the  base  of  the  butte,  clambered  over  several 
ridges,  and  disappeared  into  a  gullylike  crevice. 
Sid  followed  him  and  found  himself  entering  a 
kind  of  greenish  arbor.  A  moment  later  he  came 
upon  Pete,  stooped  over  a  shallow  bowl  in  the 
rock  which  was  filled  with  water. 

Though  the  old  man  was  going  through  the 


30  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

motions  of  dipping  the  cool,  clear  liquid  up  in 
his  cupped  palms  and  lapping  it,  Sid  noticed 
that  he  'was  not  drinking  it.  He  caught  the  wild 
gleam  in  the  haggard  eyes  that  flashed  back  on 
him.  He  felt  suddenly  faint  and  sick.  Under 
foot  a  thin,  hollow  bone  splintered  with  a  sharp 
crackling.  Other  white  bones,  multitudes  of 
them,  lay  scattered  around — skulls,  thighs,  ver- 
tebras. The  scout  knew  he  had  solved  part  of 
the  mystery  of  Asbestos  Pete's  insanity.  He 
knew  that  he  was  acting  the  part  of  the  partner 
who  had  died  years  before.  He  knew  why  Asbes- 
tos Pete  was  mad  and  why  none  of  those  who 
had  listened  to  his  tale  had  ever  found  the  mine. 
The  water  was  poison.  But  he  must  act  the  part 
out.  The  old  man  got  up  with  every  sign  of 
satisfaction  and  drew  aside,  smiling  horribly. 

Sid  waited  without  a  word  and  then  slipped 
up  to  the  deadly  pool,  threw  himself  down  with 
his  face  over  it  and  closed  his  eyes.  He  thrust  his 
head  down  under  the  surface,  holding  his  breath. 
He  remained  thus  for  as  long  as  he  could,  then 
lifted  his  head.  With  a  great  effort  he  spat  and 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  31: 

sputtered,  like  a  man  who  has  drunk  his  fill  and 
almost  strangled  himself.  Then  he  drew  back 
silently  and  sat  down.  Pete's  eyes  were  on  him. 
He  could  almost  feel  them  burning  on  him.  And 
the  bones  of  men  and  animals  who  had  drunk 
long  since  of  those  deadly  bright  waters  glim- 
mered in  the  dusk. 

So  weary  was  the  scout  that  he  almost  fell 
asleep.  But  presently  he  perceived  that  Pete  was 
cautiously  crawling  closely  to  him.  He  knew 
why:  it  was  to  see  if  he  were  dying— as  another 
youth  a  generation  before  had  died,  and  with 
him  the  secret  of  the  mine.  He  rose  quietly  and 
faced  the  murderer. 

The  crazed  man  gulped  and  gaped.  Then  he 
laughed  and  the  noise  of  his  unholy  merriment 
rang  out  in  the  cavern  of  the  night  and  echoed 
like  wild  mockery  of  some  spirit  unclean  and 
in  torment. 

"My  old  pard!"  cried  Pete,  and  slapped  his 
withered  thigh.  "Come  back  after  twenty-two 
years!  The  poison  spring  can't  hurt  ye  now,  ye 
say?  True.  It  can't.  But  that  spring  has  saved 


32  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

the  secret  for  both  of  us,  pard.  Ever  since  I  left 
ye  dead  down  the  trail  I've  kept  it  safe  and 
sound.  I've  told  many  a  man  about  our  mine 
and  sent  them  out  into  the  desert  to  die,  the  fools! 
But  you  and  I  can't  die,  old  pard!  We'll  keep 
our  secret  still — from  them  all!" 

The  madman,  shaking,  pallid,  sweating  with 
fear,  torn  by  remorse,  suffering  the  furies  that 
had  burnt  out  his  manhood,  cackled  shrilly.  Sid 
felt  his  heart  stop  in  his  breast.  He  would  have 
run  for  his  life  had  he  been  able  to  move.  Asbes- 
tos Pete  laughed  again  hysterically,  sobbing. 
Then  he  ceased,  stared,  and  fumbled  with  his 
lips.  A  moment  later  he  was  crawling  over  to 
the  spring,  glancing  fearfully  back  at  the  still 
figure  of  the  scout.  He  reached  the  pool,  rippled 
it  with  a  sweep  of  his  crooked  hand,  dipped  up  a 
palmful  and  drank  it  noisily.  Sid  tried  to  leap 
up  to  prevent  him.  Something  like  a  nightmare 
paralyzed  him.  The  old  man  drank  deeply, 
swallowing  the  poison  in  great  gulps,  babbling 
to  himself  inarticulately.  Then  he  rolled  over 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  33 

quietly  on  his  back  and  fixed  his  bright  old  eyes 
on  the  stars.  Sid  rose  and  went  to  him. 

Instead  of  madness,  composure  had  come  with 
approaching  death.  The  scout  looked  down  into 
a  face  from  which  the  pain  and  agony  and 
dementia  of  years  was  being  wiped  away.  The 
old  lips  were  curved  in  a  smile.  The  cracked  old 
voice  muttered  softly.  Sid  stooped. 

"Pard;  old  pard!"  whispered  the  dying  man. 
"Ye  know  I  warned  ye  against  that  poison  water 
when  we  were  packing  out  to  record  our  mine — 
and  because  you  were  young  and  hasty  and 
didn't  know  enough  to  keep  a  hand  on  yourself, 
you  drank  it  and  went  mad  with  me  on  the 
desert.  I  never  went  back  to  the  mine,  pard  I 
I  left  it  just  where  it  was,  all  that  wealth  and 
money,  because  it  was  yours  as  well  as  mine  and 
I  never  yet  went  back  on  a  pard.  But  they  tried 
to  steal  it  from  us,  pard.  I  kept  the  secret.  I 
lied  to  'em  all.  But  it's  been  misery.  Sometimes 
I'd  get  to  thinking  I  might  ha'  done  more  to 
keep  you  from  drinking  that  water  and  it 


34  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

bothered  me.  I  used  to  dream  you  thought  I'd 
poisoned  you  to  keep  the  mine  for  myself.  I 
didn't,  and  you  know  I  didn't.  Now  we're 
together." 

The  old  man's  voice  grew  feebler.  Sid  leaned 
over  gently.  The  steady  eyes  met  his  with  affec- 
tion and  confidence.  The  fumbling  hand  sought 
his. 

"We'll  both  of  us  go  back  to  the  mine,"  he 
murmured.  "I  never  let  on  to  a  soul  where  it 
was  ...  it's  purs  .  .  s  fore.yer  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
ever." 

That  look  of  faithfulness  died  slowly.  The 
hand  that  clutched  his  Sid  felt  relax.  He  was 
alone  under  the  butte.  The  rising  moon  threw 
its  silvery  beams  into  the  pool  of  poison  water 
and  made  it  glitter  like  a  polished  mirror. 

The  scout  got  to  his  feet.  He  had  solved  the 
problem  of  Asbestos  Pete,  and  discovered  the 
tragedy  of  his  sorrow-maddened  life.  But  there 
was  still  his  duty  to  perform — to  find  Boyle. 

Had  Boyle  drunk  of  this  water? 

If  he  had,  Sid  told  himself,  his  body  would 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  35 

not  be  far  away.  If  he  hadn't — and  his  footsteps 
had  led  almost  to  the  spot — he  likewise  would 
not  be  far  away.  It  was  perfectly  clear  that  the 
old  prospector  had  given  his  employer  the  route 
to  this  spring.  Whether  he  had  cunningly 
planned  for  him  to  drink  of  it,  and  so  perish, 
was  doubtful.  Though  inexperienced  in  the 
ways  and  moods  of  crazy  men,  the  scout  knew 
perfectly  well  that  their  actions  are  never  from 
simple  motives  but  always  from  impulses 
mingled  of  the  sane  and  insane. 

He  lit  a  fire  of  greasewood  roots  and  then 
began  a  methodical  search  in  the  moonlight 
around  the  base  of  the  butte.  After  an  hour  of 
this,  the  fire  having  burned  out,  he  relit  it  and 
prepared  his  supper.  He  found  himself  almost 
exhausted  and  thought  it  best  to  rest  and  keep 
the  fire  blazing.  If  Boyle  were  anywhere  in  the 
neighborhood  he  would  see  it  and  come.  If  he 
had  drunk  of  the  poison  water  he  was  past  help. 
But  after  two  hours  of  watchfulness  Sid  began 
to  feel  compunctions.  He  got  up  presently  and 
addressed  himself  to  going  clean  around  the 


36  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

butte,  a  matter  of  two  or  three  miles,  he  reck- 
oned. At  dawn  he  came  on  fresh  tracks  on  the 
other  side.  They  led  off  northward.  He  con- 
sulted his  compass.  The  course  was  sixteen  de- 
grees east  of  north.  He  studied  the  landscape. 
In  that  direction  he  saw  another  landmark,  this 
time  the  spur  of  a  low  range  of  mountains.  He 
judged  that  the  distance  must  be  twenty  miles, 
across  an  absolutely  arid  valley.  Suddenly  he 
became  alert.  The  mirage  had  lifted  the  floor  of 
the  valley  into  stark  visibility.  A  figure  was 
trudging  through  the  white  sand.  It  was  coming 
back  to  the  butte.  Sid's  trained  eyes  saw  that 
the  man,  whoever  he  was,  was  utterly  worn  out. 
He  staggered  and  fell  twice  and  twice  got  to  his 
feet  in  his  sight  before  the  rising  sun  dissipated 
the  vision  and  the  desert  again  spread  out  in 
solitude. 

Within  two  hours  the  scout  reached  the  man. 
It  was  Boyle,  as  he  gathered  from  a  few  broken 
words  muttered  through  blackened  lips  and  with 
a  swollen  tongue.  A  few  sups  of  water  and  a 
morsel  of  bread  helped  the  man  to  recover  him- 
self. By  noon  the  scout  had  him  in  the  shade  of 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  37 

the  gully  where  the  poison  pool  lay  obscure  and 
treacherous.  Into  this  same  shade  the  two  of 
them  dragged  the  body  of  Asbestos  Pete. 

The  question  long  hot  on  Sid's  lips  came  out: 
"Did  you  drink  of  that  pool,  Mr.  Boyle?" 

Boyle  shook  his  head  wearily.  "No.  Pete 
warned  me  about  it.  I  filled  my  canteens  from 
the  upper  one." 

"The  upper  one!" 

Boyle  painfully  led  the  way  up  the  gully  past 
the  shallow  basin  of  poison  water.  Not  a  dozen 
yards  beyond  it  a  little  spring  bubbled  out  of 
the  rocks,  overran  in  a  thin  sheet  an  immense 
boulder,  and  so  vanished. 

"Pete  told  me  to  drink  of  the  upper  one," 
Boyle  explained. 

Sid  shot  another  question :  "Did  you  find  the 
asbestos  mine?" 

"Never  heard  of  it,"  Mr.  Boyle  answered 
promptly.  "Here's  what  I  went  to  get." 

He  drew  out  a  little  cotton  sack  and  poured 
out  a  half  dozen  odd-looking  stones.  Sid  picked 
one  up. 

"Fire  opals!" 


38  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"Worth  about  a  thousand  dollars,  the  lot," 
Mr.  Boyle  said  with  satisfaction.  "Pete  told  me 
there  were  lots  of  them  out  here.  So  I  came.  I 
thought  I'd  die,  though."  He  became  serious. 
"I  don't  think  I'd  have  survived  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you,  son." 

Sid  said  nothing.  His  mind  was  on  the  his- 
tory of  the  old  prospector  who  had  told  his  story 
to  scornful  men  for  a  score  of  years,  who  had 
passed  an  existence  divided  between  periods  of 
childish  forgetfulness  and  of  mad  recollection 
of  the  great  tragedy  of  his  life.  It  struck  the 
scout  that  Asbestos  Pete  had  been  woefully  mis- 
judged. There  was  still  time  to  justify  him  in 
the  eyes  of  the  people  who  had  despised  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Boyle,  "I  owe  my  life  to  you, 


son." 


Sid  Moulton  pointed  to  «the  gray,  withered 
old  man  who  lay  so  peacefully  in  the  shade  of 
the  bushes. 

"No,  there's  the  man  who  came  to  find  you. 
He  was  afraid  you'd  get  lost  and  he  knew  the 
way." 


Getting  Next  to  Trouble  39 

"Funny  he  didn't  know  enough  not  to  drink 
that  poison  water  after  warning  me  about  it." 

Sid  felt  his  eyelids  grow  heavy  in  the  heat. 
Mr.  Boyle's  husky  voice  seemed  very  far  away. 
The  sun  was  blazing  on  the  pitiless  desert  and 
the  air  that  eddied  in  through  the  brush  was 
stinging  to  the  nostrils.  He  glanced  up.  A  speck 
in  the  sky,  a  vulture  hovered,  its  piercing  gaze 
having  detected  its  rightful  prey.  It  waited 
there  until  the  living  should  have  abandoned 
the  dead. 

"I  don't  see  anything  queer  in  his  drinking 
that  water,"  Sid  murmured,  staring  into  the  hot 
firmament.  "His  partner  did." 

"Who  was  his  partner?"  demanded  the  other. 

The  scout's  answer,  odd  as  it  sounded,  was 
true. 

"I  was,"  Sid  answered,  and  closed  his  eyes 
in  sleep. 


THE  PRICE  OF  CITIZENSHIP 

TT  was  not  long  before  Sid  had  found  a  new 
-*-  friend,  who  lived  about  four  miles  across  the 
desert  from  his  uncle's  ranch  near  Helen's  Sta- 
tion. Bob  Child,  otherwise  known  as  "Angel" 
Child,  was  a  scout  belonging  to  a  troop  in  North- 
ern California.  He,  too,  was  a  visitor  to  the  des- 
ert, staying  at  his  grandfather's  ranch  on  the 
Barstow  road. 

Angel  came  to  spend  the  Fourth  of  July 
with  Sid.  They  woke  early,  in  the  sharp  air  that 
foretold  the  dawn,  slipped  out  of  their  cots  and 
ran  silently,  barefooted  and  in  nightclothes,  for 
the  water  barrel  that  supplied  the  household 
baths.  A  moment,  and  both  were  laughing  and 
gurgling  and  dashing  the  cold  liquid  at  each 
other  with  lard  buckets.  Then  they  raced  back 
into  the  big  screen  porch  and  dressed  lightly 
while  the  eastern  hills  began  to  burn  and 
smolder. 

40 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  41 

"Fourth  of  July!"  Sid  remarked.  "Uncle 
Joe's  going  to  start  for  Victorville  before  it  gets 
too  hot." 

Child  grinned.  "I  hear  'em  stirring  on  the 
other  porch,  but  I'll  bet  you  a  nickel  the  ther- 
mometer reaches  a  hundred  before  breakfast." 

Sid  nodded.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  blaz- 
ing horizon.  A  huge,  steady  flame  had  risen  into 
the  sky,  as  if  blown  by  some  tremendous  blast 
from  below  the  mountain.  It  licked  the  stars 
quickly  up,  blackened  the  steel  blue  clear  to  the 
zenith,  and  then  died  down.  Through  a  notch  in 
the  far  sierra  a  blob  of  hot  gold  rose,  like  mol- 
ten metal  rising  above  the  lip  of  a  dam.  It 
showed  larger  and  larger  and  then  burst  into  a 
dazzling  flood  of  almost  insufferable  light  which 
filled  the  end  of  the  valley  and  spread  out  brim- 
ming to  the  San  Bernardinos  on  one  side,  to  the 
Calicoes  on  the  north.  Just  in  front  of  the  ranch 
a  lake  appeared,  shimmering  and  twinkling 
silently  among  the  yucca  palms. 

The  scouts  breathed  deeply  at  this  ever-recur- 
ring miracle  of  the  mirage. 


42  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"It  means  an  awfully  hot  day,"  Sid  remarked. 
"And  wind." 

"Sand  storm,"  Angel  agreed. 

"Hot." 

"Hot,"  Angel  Child  repeated. 

Their  forecast  was  accepted  by  Mr.  Moulton 
good-naturedly.  "We  desert  people  oughtn't  to 
worry  over  it,"  he  said,  smiling  at  his  wife. 
"And  all  the  Fourths  mostly  I  ever  knew  were 
pretty  warm,  even  in  other  places." 

But  at  seven  the  sun  was  scorching  the  sand. 
The  morning  breeze  had  died  completely  and 
the  little  party  found  the  car's  rapid  travel  up 
the  waterless  bed  of  the  Mojave  all  too  slow  for 
comfort.  At  eight  they  had  reached  Victorville, 
where  already  a  big,  contented  crowd  had  gath- 
ered for  the  day's  celebration.  The  scouts  re- 
ceived instructions  where  to  meet  their  elders 
for  dinner  and  quickly  mingled  with  the  cow- 
boys, horse  wranglers,  miners,  prospectors, 
homesteaders,  millmen,  and  business  men  who 
had  come  in  from  all  quarters  for  the  day. 
Other  scouts  turned  up  and  presently  they  all 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  43 

went  by  themselves  above  the  river  gorge  for  a 
swim  in  one  of  the  few  pools  that  remained  to 
mark  the  course  of  the  dying  stream.  Then  Sid 
and  Angel  determined  to  go  back  to  town  and 
find  their  people. 

"Somehow  it  seems  to  be  getting  hotter  than 
I  ever  heard  of,"  Sid  remarked.  "Maybe  Uncle 
Joe  and  Aunt  Mary  will  want  to  go  back  to 
the  ranch." 

"It's  certainly  hot/'  his  companion  replied, 
wiping  the  sweat  out  of  his  hat.  "But  maybe 
it's  just  because  we  had  a  swim  that  we  feel  it 


so." 


Sid  Moulton  picked  up  a  stone  of  curious  tint 
and  dropped  it  quickly. 

"Even  that  pebble's  too  hot  to  hold,"  he  said, 
making  a  face. 

"Think  of  the  people  traveling  across  the 
desert  this  weather." 

"Whew!" 

"And  people  not  driving  cars  but  riding  after 
mules  and  burros,"  Angel  went  on. 

Sid  refused  to  consider  this  at  all  and  led  the 


44  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

way  to  a  group  in  front  of  the  post  office  enjoy- 
ing the  shade  of  the  cottonwood  trees  and  a  gen- 
erous gossip.  Mr.  Moulton  greeted  them  cheer- 
fully but  with  a  trace  of  anxiety  on  his  face.  Sid 
observed  this  and  wondered  whether  the  heat 
was  really  extraordinary  or  not.  But  almost  im- 
mediately his  attention  was  drawn  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  postmistress,  with  a  letter  in 
her  hand. 

"Now,  Miss  Messick!"  some  one  drawled, 
"don't  ask  a  man  to  fetch  that  letter  to  its  owner 
this  kind  of  a  day." 

The  postmistress  smiled  but  did  not  give  an 
inch.  She  looked  over  the  little  group  and  re- 
peated a  request  which  Sid  instantly  understood 
she  had  made  before: 

"Here's  a  letter  for  Anton  Sijota,  and  it's  gov- 
ernment and  he  lives  out  west  by  Mirage  Lake 
somewhere,  and  it's  important." 

"None  of  us  goes  that  way,  ma'am,"  said  a 
cow-puncher  thoughtfully. 

"One  would  think  nobody  ever  went  that 
way,"  Miss  Messick  sniffed.  "This  letter  has 
been  here  six  days  already.  Doesn't  anybody 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  45 

want  to  go  a  little  out  of  their  way  and  deliver 
it?" 

Sid  saw  that  the  listeners,  willing  as  they 
might  be  to  do  a  favor,  couldn't  see  any  neces- 
sity of  spoiling  a  perfectly  good  Fourth  by  bur- 
dening themselves  with  a  letter  for  some  un- 
known and  foreign  settler.  He  followed  the 
postmistress  inside  and  asked  her  about  the  Si- 
jotas — pronouncing  the  name  in  the  Spanish 
way,  See-jo-ta. 

"They  have  lived  out  west  somewhere  near 
the  dry  lake  for  three  years,"  she  told  him.  "I've 
seen  none  of  them  except  a  young  fellow  who 
used  to  come  in  once  a  month  on  foot  and  get  the 
mail  for  his  mother.  But  my  sister  told  me  that 
the  father,  who  was  a  soldier  in  France,  came 
home  three  months  ago  and  has  been  in  eight  or 
nine  times  for  the  mail  in  the  past  six  weeks.  He 
walks  in — and  it  must  be  twenty-five  miles — and 
seems  so  disappointed  at  not  getting  anything. 
My  sister  understood  he  was  looking  for  some 
back  pay  in  a  letter.  Here  it  is,  all  ready  for  the 
poor  man,  and  he  doesn't  turn  up." 

Sid   thanked   her   for   the   information    and 


46  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

quietly  went  off  and  made  other  inquiries.  The 
gist  of  his  findings  was  this:  a  little  over  two 
years  before  Mrs.  Sijota  and  her  sixteen-year-old 
son  had  arrived  in  Victorville  and  asked  the 
way  to  a  small,  abandoned  ranch  near  Gray 
Mountain.  They  had  gone  there,  and  off  and  on 
the  lad  had  come  into  town  with  a  very  small 
sum  of  money  to  buy  provisions  and  get  the  mail. 
This  boy,  so  Richardson,  the  storekeeper,  told 
Sid,  seemed  sickly.  After  the  war  was  over  the 
husband  and  father  had  arrived,  evidently  still 
weakened  by  wounds.  He  had  made  a  great 
many  trips  in  on  foot  asking  for  his  mail. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  Richardson  told  the  scout, 
"he  expects  his  back  pay  and  hasn't  anything  in 
the  meantime.  I  offered  him  goods  on  credit  but 
he  didn't  seem  to  understand." 

"Spanish,  sir?" 

"No,  a  Pole,  I  think,"  said  the  storekeeper. 
"A  Russian  Pole." 

Of  others  Sid  gathered  that  the  Sijota  place 
— which  no  one  would  admit  going  near — was 
on  the  edge  of  the  dry  lake  known  as  Mirage 
Lake,  a  most  desolate  and  forbidding  spot. 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  47 

"And  at  this  moment,"  said  one  of  his  inform- 
ants, "I'll  warrant  the  sand  is  blowing  a  mile 
high  right  there." 

Having  digested  this,  Sid  called  Angel  Child 
aside  and  gave  him  the  news. 

"They  haven't  been  in  to  buy  anything  for  two 
weeks,"  Sid  went  on.  "Both  the  man  and  the 
boy  are  sick.  Besides  that,  he  has  to  walk  when 
he  comes  in — he  couldn't  do  it  in  this  weather, 
could  he?" 

"No,"  Child  admitted.  "But  he's  a  foreigner, 
isn't  he?" 

"He  was  an  American  soldier  in  France  and 
was  wounded,"  Sid  returned. 

Angel  Child  nodded.  "A  nice  Fourth  of 
July  for  him,  eh?  Broke,  and  a  sand  storm  and 
no  grub.  Whew!" 

Sid's  hot  face  flushed  still  more.  "It  looks 
good  for  the  rest  of  us  Americans  to  celebrate 
the  Fourth  while  a  man  that  fought  for  us  is  out 
there  on  his  ranch,  doesn't  it?" 

"Dunno  what  we  can  do,"  the  other  scout  re- 
joined uncomfortably. 


48  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"That  letter  has  money  in  it,  so  Miss  Messick 
says.  We  might  take  it  out  to  him." 

"Walk?  Twenty-five  miles?  You're  crazy, 
Sid!  And  it's  getting  so  hot  now  people  are 
nearly  dead  with  it." 

"Ride,"  Sid  replied  firmly.  "I'm  game  to 
ask  Uncle  Joe." 

"He  wouldn't  hear  to  our  going,"  Child 
responded. 

"You  go  if  he  says  yes?" 

"Sure." 

To  the  scouts'  utter  amazement  Mr.  Moulton 
seemed  much  relieved  when  the  suggestion  was 
put  to  him.  "That  letter  was  worrying  me,  boys. 
I'll  go  with  you,  for  your  aunt  is  going  to  visit 
with  a  friend  for  the  day,  anyway." 

"But  you'll  miss  the  doings!"  Sid  protested. 

His  uncle  laughed  and  directed  the  boys  to 
borrow  three  or  four  extra  canteens  and  fill  them 
with  fresh  water. 

It  was  within  an  hour  of  noon  when  the  car 
climbed  up  out  of  the  rocky  bowl  in  which  Vic- 
torville  lies  and  they  caught  the  hot  blast  of  the 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  49 

wind  on  the  mesa.  Far  ahead  of  them  a  dense, 
ruddy  cloud  rose  a  mile  into  the  burning  aii; 
shadowy,  mingled  with  darker  fumes,  billow- 
ing up  like  smoke  from  a  furnace. 

"Just  what  I  feared,"  Mr.  Moulton  said 
quietly.  "A  sand  storm." 

"Do  you  think  we'd  better  risk  it?"  Angel 
Child  inquired. 

"I  happen  to  know  the  place  where  these  poor 
people  live,"  was  the  grim  reply.  "I've  been 
worried  ever  since  Miss  Messick  spoke  about 
them.  I  really  oughtn't  to  take  you  boys  along. 
But  we  have  water  enough  and  it  will  get  cooler 
to-night." 

"But "  Sid  began. 

Mr.  Moulton  gazed  intently  ahead.  "There's 
been  water  there  for  several  years,"  he  said. 
"But  I  remember  a  year  when  the  wells  by  the 
lake  dried  up — suddenly.  And  I  believe  it's 
twelve  miles  to  the  nearest  sure  well  from  the 
Sijotas'  place." 

The  scouts  glanced  at  each  other.  They 
blinked  in  the  terrific  heat,  but  said  no  more. 


SO  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

A  few  miles  further  on  they  drove  through 
the  little  oasis  of  Adelanto  and  its  orchards>  now 
steaming  in  the  heat.  All  was  silence,  except 
for  the  whine  of  the  rising  wind  which  swept 
across  the  desolate  leagues  like  the  breath  of  fire. 
At  the  pumping  plant  they  refilled  the  radiator 
and  cooled  the  canteens. 

"We  must  have  still  more,"  Mr.  Moulton  re- 
marked curtly,  and  picked  up  a  water  bag  which 
he  carefully  soaked  and  filled.  "I'll  return  it 
later." 

After  leaving  Adelanto  the  road  became  heav- 
ier with  sand.  The  car  began  to  labor  and  be- 
fore long  they  were  going  in  second  speed  with 
difficulty.  Now  and  again  a  swirling  dust-devil 
would  envelop  them  in  sand  and  dust  and  fine 
particles  of  dried  vegetables.  Each  time  they 
would  have  to  stop  and  clear  their  eyes  and 
mouths.  And  each  time  they  started  on  the 
going  was  heavier. 

The  speedometer  marked  sixteen  miles  from 
Victorville  when  they  first  had  to  get  out  of  the 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  51 

car  and  use  the  shovel  to  clear  the  ruts  so  the 
wheels  could  revolve.  For  the  next  two  hours 
they  toiled  ceaselessly,  closed  in  by  the  stifling 
cloud  of  dust  that  poured  up  from  the  desert 
floor  and  obscured  the  very  sun.  And  all  this 
time  they  dared  not  touch  their  precious  water. 
But  at  last  they  won  through  to  hard  going 
across  an  old  sink,  from  which  the  winter's 
waters  had  drained  away  to  leave  rutted  adobe, 
baked  into  a  kind  of  cementlike  rock.  Over  this 
they  had  to  crawl  slowly  for  fear  of  breaking 
springs.  Then  they  reached  the  borders  of 
Mirage  Lake  and  stopped,  appalled. 

Into  this  great,  absolutely  level  expanse  of 
low  ground  every  wash  had  poured  its  flood 
waters  for  centuries  untold.  Each  winter  had 
seen  the  mineral  deposit  heavier.  Each  summer 
had  seen  the  sun  dry  the  water  up  and  bake  the 
bed  harder,  till  it  was  many  yards  deep  with 
soda.  This  huge  cake,  many  square  miles  in  ex- 
tent, had  been  cracked  and  pulverized  by  blaz- 
ing heat  and  torrential  winds,  so  that  it  offered 


52  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

to  the  gale  a  dust  as  fine  as  flour,  as  acrid  and 
biting  as  salt,  as  parching  as  ashes.  All  this  had 
been  swept  up  into  the  air  and  swirled  and 
fumed  and  smoked  and  eddied  and  drove  wildly 
over  the  desert  like  a  cloud  of  dry  poison.  The 
road,  which  went  directly  across  this  "lake," 
was  obliterated. 

For  some  time  Sid  tried  to  figure  out  his  di- 
rections; but  it  was  impossible.  Both  scouts 
realized  that  to  attempt  to  drive  the  car  off  the 
well-defined  road  into  this  seething  mist  of  hur- 
tling sand  and  soda  flakes  would  be  death.  They 
crouched  in  the  lee  of  the  car  and  waited  for 
Mr.  Moulton  to  make  his  decision. 

Suddenly  he  waved  his  hand  to  them  and  they 
got  into  the  car  and  pulled  the  curtains  snugly 
down. 

"I'm  going  around!"  he  cried. 

The  car  swung  to  the  left  and  presently  en- 
tered a  vaguely  marked  trail  across  which  the 
sand  had  been  blown  in  great  windrows.  In  the 
first  one  they  stuck,  hub  deep. 

"Our  only  chance,  boys!"  Mr.  Moulton  re- 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  S3 

marked,  and  led  the  way  out  to  tackle  it  with  the 
shovels. 

Slowly  they  hammered  their  way  along,  using 
the  car  now  as  a  battering-ram,  now  gentling  it 
over  some  harder  surface.  And  as  their  watches 
marked  six  o'clock  they  emerged  into  a  stretch 
which  offered  fair  traveling.  But  the  heat  was 
worse  than  ever. 

"Now  we'll  have  a  drink  all  around,  boys," 
said  Mr.  Moulton. 

They  stared  at  each  other's  blackened  faces 
and  cracked  lips  and  laughed. 

"Do  we  go  back  the  way  we  came?"  Sid  asked 
huskily. 

"No,"  was  the  reply.  "First,  let's  find  the  Si- 
jotas.  Then  we'll  figure  on  the  return  trip." 

A  mile  further  on  they  emerged  from  the 
choking  sand  storm  and  stared  dazedly  at  a 
great  wall  of  rock  that  rose  above  them. 

"Gray  Mountain,"  Mr.  Moulton  gasped,  and 
swung  the  car  to  the  right.  "Their  place  is  the 
other  side  of  it." 

This  piece  of  so-called   road  proved  worse 


54  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

than  all  before.  It  was  sanded  over  so  that  the 
ruts  were  almost  imperceptible.  They  kept  to 
the  proper  trail  by  observing  the  yucca  palms 
and  the  sparse  greasewood  and  sage  which,  of 
course,  had  been  cleared  from  the  road.  But 
many  times  they  knew  they  were  off  it  and  re- 
gained it  only  by  arduous  search. 

"The  main  thing  is  to  keep  close  to  the  moun- 
tain," Mr.  Moulton  explained.  "We  can't  go 
far  wrong." 

"We've  boiled  away  two  canteens  full  of 
water  in  the  radiator,"  Angel  Child  stated  later 
when  they  stopped  to  cool  the  engine  again. 

"I  see  a  shack  off  there  to  the  right,"  Sid 
exclaimed. 

"That's  it,"  his  uncle  answered. 

They  plunged  on  and  presently  came  to  a 
full  stop  about  a  hundred  yards  from  a  small, 
ill-built  shanty  set  in  a  little  wired  enclosure. 
Door  and  windows  were  tightly  shut.  No  tracks 
appeared  in  the  freshly  blown  sand. 

"They  must  have  gone  out  and  quit,"  Sid  sug- 
gested. 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  55 

His  uncle  said  nothing  but  led  the  way  on 
through  the  soft  footing  to  the  door.  He  knocked 
loudly. 

So  the  three  of  them  stood  in  the  stifling  heat, 
shielding  their  faces  from  tHe  hurtling  sand,  lis- 
tening for  some  sound  from  the  house.  None 
came.  Mr.  Moulton  knocked  again,  banging  on 
the  cracked  and  paintless  panel  with  his  fist. 
And  from  within  came  a  queer  whining  sob,  a 
thin  sound  of  misery  which  made  the  scouts'  hair 
bristle.  With  one  accord  they  put  their  weight 
on  the  door.  It  gave.  They  found  themselves 
peering  into  the  shadowy  interior,  whence  is- 
sued a  little,  sobbing  noise.  They  stepped  inside 
and  closed  the  door  behind  them.  Instantly  the 
shriek  of  the  baffled  gale  rose  and  deafened 
them.  The  house  shook  to  the  blast.  But  Mr. 
Moulton  was  sure  of  what  he  saw  and  what  he 
heard.  He  turned  and  said  to  Sid,  "Get  water." 

When  the  scout  returned  with  two  canteens 
from  the  car  he  saw  his  uncle  standing  over  a 
narrow  bed  talking  to  a  man  who  lay  stretched 
out,  staring  up  with  blazing  eyes.  Beyond  sat  a 


56  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

woman  in  a  chair,  quite  still,  except  for  a  steady, 
whispering  sobbing.  And  beyond  these  two  he 
saw  a  dim  form,  very  quiet  and  remote  and 
calm;  white-faced,  motionless,  with  closed  eyes 
and  face  upturned  to  the  shadowy  roof.  And  the 
only  sensation  he  felt  was  one  of  choking  heat, 
of  heat  that  parched  his  throat  and  dried  the 
sweat  on  his  body  and  blazed  darkly  about  him. 

The  man  on  the  cot  raised  his  cracked  voice: 
"The  water  stopped  in  the  well  three  days  ago." 

For  some  time  Mr.  Moulton  and  the  boys 
were  busy  giving  the  suffering  man  and  his  wife 
a  little  water.  Sid  gathered  a  few  kindlings  of 
brush  and  lit  a  fire  in  the  stove  in  spite  of  the 
terrific  heat. 

"Quite  right,  Sid,"  his  uncle  told  him. 
"You'll  find  a  box  of  groceries  in  the  car.  Bring 
it  here  and  make  some  tea.  Then  open  one  of 
the  cans  of  soup." 

"They've  had  nothing  to  eat?"  Sid  whispered. 

His  uncle  shook  his  head. 

Sid  pointed  to  the  third  form,  lying  so  quietly 
by  the  wall. 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  57 

"He  needs  nothing,"  Mr.  Moulton  mur- 
mured. 

With  the  sun  the  wind  went  down  and  before 
the  darkness  fell  the  desert  emerged  from  its  ob- 
scurity, the  stars  appeared  in  the  sky,  and  a  fresh 
breeze  fanned  the  sage  into  giving  out  its  pun- 
gent odor.  Mr.  Sijota  and  his  wife  were  asleep. 
Outside  and  away  from  the  house  the  scouts  pre- 
pared supper.  They  knew  the  story  of  that  third 
person  who  still  lay  motionless  in  the  shadow  of 
the  wall.  That  is,  they  knew  part  of  it.  The 
greatest  of  that  dead  boy's  history  was  still  for 
them  to  hear. 

At  midnight  the  air  was  still  warm  but  all 
sense  of  exhausting  heat  had  departed.  Mr. 
Moulton  sat  outside  the  house  staring  at  the  bril- 
liant stars  while  the  scouts  dozed  at  his  feet.  But 
inside  the  dark  room  there  was  a  stir.  There  was 
the  sound  of  feet  shuffling  feebly  across  the  floor. 
Anton  Sijota  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

The  scouts  roused  to  hear  Mr.  Moulton  say, 
"You'd  better  rest  a  while  yet." 


58  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"I  can't  any  more,"  Sijota  answered,  turned, 
and  called  gently,  "Sophia!" 

His  wife  appeared  beside  him,  pallid-.faced, 
tearless,  bright-eyed. 

"We  will  tell  them  about  htm/'  her  husband 
went  on. 

Mrs.  Sijota  nodded. 

"He  was  our  boy — our  son,"  the  man  said 
huskily.  "He  was  an  American  boy — always, 
since  we  brought  him  to  America  from  War- 
saw." 

"You're  an  American,  too,  now?"  Mr.  Moul- 
ton  remarked. 

"I  am  no\v.  He  made  me  one.  But  years  ago 
I  wasn't.  I  was  all  Pole.  I  worked  in  this  coun- 
try but  I  dreamed  of  Poland.  But  Thaddeus,  he 
would  study  and  go  to  school  and  always  say  he 
was  an  American.  Then,  when  the  United  States 
went  to  war,  he  wanted  to  fight.  He  was  too 
young,  of  course.  Only  a  boy.  But  he  would 
come  home  from  school  and  cry  out  that  he 
would  go  and  fight  for  his  country.  But  he  was 
too  young." 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  59 

The  woman  looked  down  at  the  scouts  with  a 
profound  glance  of  sorrow. 

"A  boy,  like  you,"  she  whispered. 

"A  scout?"  Sid  asked  softly. 

"A  boy  scout,"  the  man  replied.  "He  was  al- 
ways an  American,  though  I  am  a  Pole.  And  he 
cried  because  they  wouldn't  let  him  fight  for 
freedom.  So  I  went  into  the  army." 

In  the  silence  the  boys  pondered  this.  Mr. 
Moulton  broke  the  stillness  with  a  question: 
"You  didn't  have  to  go,  but  you  went  because 
your  son  wanted  you  to  go?" 

"To  fight  for  America,"  Sijota  replied.  "I 
didn't  want  to  go.  Why  should  I  quit  my  job 
and  go  to  war?  I  wasn't  an  American.  I  was 
Polish.  But  little  Thaddeus  cried.  He  said  we 
had  been  made  free  by  America  and  we  ought  to 
fight  for  it.  So  I  went." 

"You  were  wounded?"  Mr.  Moulton  mur- 
mured. 

The  man  waved  his  hand  carelessly.  "I  am 
alive.  I  was  a  soldier  in  France.  And  when  I 
went  to  Camp  Lewis  Thaddeus  counted  the 


60  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

money  and  said  to  his  mother,  'We  have  very 
little.  We  will  go  where  we  need  very  little  and 
build  a  home  for  my  father  when  he  comes 
back.'  He  brought  his  mother  here." 

The  boys  stared  around  at  the  desolate  ex- 
panse of  sand  and  sage,  breathed  the  spicy,  warm 
air,  remembered  the  horrors  of  the  day  and 
wondered. 

"Yes,  he  brought  her  here.  Here  was  where 
he  was  going  to  build  our  home.  And  all  the 
time  I  was  away  he  worked  and  dug  a  well  and 
planted  a  garden  and  hauled  wood  and  helped 
his  mother.  In  the  evenings  they  studied  to- 
gether and  read  books — the  little  books  he  could 
get" 

"I  talk  good  American  nowl"  the  woman 
cried  in  a  sudden,  sharp,  triumphant  voice. 

"Yes/'  her  husband  went  on  stolidly.  "Thad- 
deus  wanted  us  to  be  good  Americans.  He 
wanted  us  always  to  be  free.  So  he  brought  his 
mother  here  and  they  built  us  a  home." 

"But  he  was  sick!"  Angel  Child  interposed. 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  61 

"He  was  sick,"  Sijota  admitted.  "Long  ago 
he  ought  to  have  had  a  doctor,  medicine,  and 
rest.  But  I  was  away  and  he  wanted  to  fix  up 
our  home  before  I  came  back.  Then  I  came 
back,  myself  sick.  So  he  worked  just  the  same. 
Always  working  and  laughing  and  telling  us 
that  we  would  be  good  Americans  and  fight  for 
our  freedom  and  never  be  slaves." 

The  woman  lifted  her  voice  again :  "And  he 
died  before  the  news  came!" 

"No  water?"  Mr.  Moulton  whispered. 

"No  water,"  the  man  responded  quietly.  "The 
sand  blew  into  the  well  he  had  dug  and  filled  it 
up.  I  couldn't  go  for  water,  for  he  was  dying 
and  I  couldn't  leave.  And  after  he  died,  we 
were  sick  and  dared  not  leave  each  other." 

Sid  caught  back  at  the  woman's  cry. 

"What  news  was  to  come,  ma'am?" 

Mrs.  Sijota  brushed  the  dusty  folds  of  her 
cheap  gown  with  her  thin  hands.  She  cast  an 
appealing  glance  at  her  husband,  her  eyes  glim- 
mering in  the  starlit  dusk 


62  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"He  wanted  me  to  be  an  American  citizen," 
the  man  said  simply.  "Having  been  a  soldier  I 
was  entitled  to  be  one.  I  took  the  oath  in  San 
Bernardino,  but  I  didn't  get  my  papers.  I  went 
to  the  post  office  many  times,  but  no  papers.  So 
he  died  without  being  an  American." 

Sid  and  Angel  Child  thought  this  over.  Sid 
spoke  first. 

"Uncle  Joe,  did  the  boy  want  to  be  an  Ameri- 
can? Wasn't  he  already?  Why  did  he  want 
'his  father  to  be  one  so  badly?" 

"Because  Thaddeus  wouldn't  be  an  American 
unless  his  father  became  one,"  Mr.  Moulton  ex- 
plained. "If  Mr.  Sijota  got  his  citizenship  be- 
fore his  son  became  twenty-one,  that  made  Thad- 
deus an  American." 

Sijota  nodded.  "That  was  it.  He  wanted  me 
to  be  a  citizen.  I  wanted  to  be  one,  for  that 
would  make  him  one.  But  the  news  never  came." 

With  an  ejaculation  Mr.  Moulton  pulled  the 
letter  from  his  pocket  which  the  postmistress  at 
Victorville  had  given  him. 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  63 

"Is  this  it?"  he  asked,  and  explained. 

Very  slowly  Sijota  opened  the  envelope.  A 
long,  blue  check  shook  in  his  hand.  He  glanced 
at  his  wife  and  tears  trickled  down  his  cheeks. 
The  paper  floated  to  the  floor,  unobserved. 

"My  citizenship  papers  didn't  come,"  he 
whispered. 

Mr.  Moulton  recovered  the  check.  "You  bet- 
ter keep  this,"  he  said  gently.  "It's  Uncle  Sam's 
voucher  for  your  back  pay." 

But  Anton  Sijota  paid  no  attention.  He  was 
patting  his  wife  on  the  shoulder. 

"I'll  go  into  San  Bernardino  and  get  those  pa- 
pers," he  told  her.  "He  shall  be  buried  an 
American,  my  wife.  Our  Thaddeus  shall  not 
be  buried  a  stranger." 

Mr.  Moulton  rose  and  stared  thoughtfully  at 
the  boys.  Then  he  said,  "I'm  off  now,  Sid.  You 
must  be  careful  about  the  water.  I'm  going  to 
San  Bernardino  by  Baldy  Mesa  and  I'll  be  there 
at  sun-up.  I'll  get  those  papers  and  be  back  by 
noon," 


64  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Ten  minutes  later  the  car's  lights  vanished 
around  Gray  Mountain  on  the  road  towards  the 
high  range  to  the  west. 

At  noon  Mr.  Moulton  was  back  and  with  him 
another  man  who  got  quickly  out  of  the  car  and 
went  into  the  house. 

"It's  the  coroner,"  Mr.  Moulton  explained. 
"He'll  fix  things  up." 

"Did  you  get  Mr.  Sijota's  citizenship  papers, 
uncle?" 

"I  did.  In  my  pocket." 

"Then  the  boy  was  an  American  when  he 
died?" 

"He  was.  The  papers  were  signed  ten  days 
ago." 

In  the  afternoon  a  little  burial  party  assem- 
bled in  a  small  canyon  back  of  the  house,  a  mere 
crevice  in  the  rocky  flank  of  Gray  Mountain. 
Here  the  scouts  had  dug  a  grave.  Into  it  they 
placed  Thaddeus,  wrapped  in  an  American 
flag,  and  buried  him.  And  when  this  was  done 
Mr.  Moulton  called  Mr.  Sijota  aside,  after  see- 
ing the  coroner's  officer  away. 


The  Price  of  Citizenship  65 

"If  you  will  come  with  us,  I'll  see  that  you 
and  your  wife  have  a  good  place,"  he  said. 

But  Sijota  shook  his  head,  as  did  his  wife 
when  the  matter  was  taken  to  her. 

"Thaddeus  picked  out  this  place  for  our  home 
and  here  he  built  it,"  they  explained.  "We  shall 
stay." 

Mr.  Moulton  did  his  best  to  argue  the  point, 
and  at  last  the  woman  took  him  and  the  boys 
into  a  small  room  back  of  the  main  one.  She 
drew  aside  a  burlap  curtain  and  pointed  to  the 
wall.  It  had  been  carefully  covered  with  heavy, 
white  paper.  On  this  was  drawn  with  great  care, 
in  colored  crayons,  a  picture  of  a  house  sur- 
rounded by  trees,  meadows,  a  garden,  and  with 
stock  feeding  in  the  distance. 

"My  boy  drew  this,"  she  said.  "It  is  the  pic- 
ture of  the  home  he  chose  for  us.  We  will  stay." 

The  man  tapped  on  the  crude,  raw  drawing 
with  his  calloused  finger. 

"It  was  his  dream  of  our  home.  We  will 
stay." 

The  scouts  stared  at  it  and  felt  a  lump  rise  in 


66  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

their  throats  at  thought  of  what  the  boy  had 
dreamt  and  suffered — and  after  all  had  chosen 
a  spot  where  there  was  no  water  except  at  odd 
and  uncertain  times. 

Mr.  Moulton  was  silent. 

"He  studied  very  hard,"  Mrs.  Sijota  pro- 
claimed. 

Her  husband  nodded.  "He  was  always  want- 
ing to  be  an  American.  'Every  American  has  a 
home,  papa,'  he  would  tell  me.  'You  fight  for 
it  and  I'll  build  it.7  " 

"But  there  is  no  water  here,"  Mr.  Moulton 
said  finally.  "I  admit  that  with  water  you  could 
make  a  home  like  that — even  here." 

The  woman  nodded.  "There  is  water,"  she 
said  simply.  "Just  before  he  died  he  smiled  at 
me.  There  was  nothing  to  drink  in  the  house 
and  he  was  hot  with  fever.  But  he  smiled. 
'There  is  water  in  the  well,  if  you  dig,'  he  told 
me.  He  knew.  He  studied  hard." 

"There  is  water,"  her  husband  agreed  sol- 
emnly. "Thaddeus  said  so."  He  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  pictured  dream  and  gulped. 


The  Price  of  Citizenship^  67 

Quietly  Sid  and  his  companion  withdrew. 
They  went  to  the  dry,  half-filled  in  hole  that  had 
been  the  well 

"Gimme  a  shovel,"  Sid  said. 

"It's  hotter  than  yesterday,'7  Angel  remarked. 
"But  we'll  dig." 

The  afternoon  wind  drove  the  whirlwinds 
across  the  desert  and  veiled  the  dry  lake  in 
clouds  of  dust  while  the  scouts  dug  briskly.  Mr. 
Moulton  came  and  looked  at  them  and  went 
away.  After  three  hours'  hard  work  the  boys 
had  gone  down  another  five  feet.  The  dry  sand 
rolled  back  on  them,  was  caught  in  little  puffs 
and  blown  into  their  eyes. 

"No  use,  Sid,"  Angel  said  hoarsely. 

Sid  nodded  and  turned  his  miner's  shovel 
handle  upward.  With  a  careless  movement  he 
drove  it  into  the  yielding  sand.  He  looked  up  to 
see  Mr.  Moulton  and  Sijota  staring  down.  He 
saw  their  faces  change  strangely,  heard  Angel 
Child's  queer,  strangled  cry.  Then  he  looked 
down.  His  feet  were  sinking  swiftly  under  him. 
His  uncle  stooped  quickly  and  grasped  his  arm 


68  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

and  drew  him  up  as  the  water  boiling  upward 
rose  to  his  waist. 

"There  is  water,"  Sijota  said  gravely.  "Thad- 
deus  said  there  was." 

"A  flowing  well!"  Mr.  Moulton  ejaculated. 
"That  means  independence  for  you,  Mr.  Sijota!" 

The  clear  water  brimmed  over  the  edge  of 
the  hole  and  flowed  away  through  the  sand,  a 
bright,  glimmering  stream.  And  they  stared  at 
the  miracle,  the  Americans  born  and  the  Ameri- 
cans newly  made.  Behind  them,  in  the  little  box 
canyon,  the  stars  and  stripes  floated  over  the 
grave  of  another  American  whose  untiring 
dream  of  a  home  and  freedon  and  loyalty  to  his 
country  had  won  a  part  of  the  desolation  of 
the  Mojave  and  made  it  fertile. 

Mrs.  Sijota  raised  her  thin,  plangent  voice 
in  triumph.  Her  husband  turned  a  face  filled 
with  sorrow,  gladness,  and  pain  on  her.  He 
patted  her  shoulder  with  his  rough  hand. 

"You'll  have  to  make  the  trip  to  the  city,"  Mr. 
Moulton  said  huskily,  "and  record  this  new 
well." 


1 

The  Price  of  Citizenship  69 

He  pulled  out  his  map  and  carefully  marked 
it  down.  Sid  nodded.  "Call  it  'American  Well,' 
uncle,"  he  whispered. 


THE  VANISHED  CAR 

IT  was  a  splendid  winter's  day  in  the  Mojave, 
with  a  sky  of  utter  blue  above  and  the  endless 
gray  of  the  desert  below.  Sid  had  tramped 
four  miles  from  his  uncle's  ranch  to  visit 
Angel  Child.  The  two  boys  had  been  gather- 
ing the  white-gray  holly  that  haunts  certain 
rocky  hillsides  in  the  Mojave  and  were  resting 
on  a  slope  that  overlooked  the  desolate  valley 
that  runs  round  Ord  Mountain  like  a  moat 
round  a  castle. 

"There's  lots  of  gold  over  there,"  Child  said. 
"Grandfather  told  me  that  years  ago  several 
men  made  fortunes  right  in  that  valley." 

Sid  stared  down  and  nodded.  "There's  all 
kinds  of  precious  metals  around  here,"  he  said 
slowly.  "It  only  needs  to  be  found." 

"And  sometimes  when  it  is  found,  it  gets  lost 
again,"  Angel  replied.  "Like  old  Bill  Ames's 


mine," 


70 


The  Vanished  Car  71 

"Who's  old  Bill  Ames?"  Sid  asked  lazily, 
turning  on  his  back  to  gaze  up  at  a  vulture 
floating  a  mile  in  the  air. 

"He  visits  grandfather,"  Angel  responded. 
"Nice  old  chap,  with  queer,  flighty  eyes,  like 
a  wild  animal  in  a  cage.  I  heard  him  say  he'd 
give  five  thousand  dollars  to  any  one  who  could 
locate  an  automobile." 

"What's  locating  an  automobile  got  to  do  with 
a  lost  mine?" 

"I  don't  know,"  the  other  scout  confessed. 
"It's — it's  the  way  he  talks,  I  guess.  First  off, 
grandfather  asked  him  if  he'd  found  his  lost 
mine  yet  and  old  Bill  Ames  winks  rapidly  and 
stares  at  me  and  then  out  on  the  desert  and 
answers,  Tve  never  found  the  automobile  yet' 
That's  all  I  know,  except  I  asked  him  if  it  was 
a  good  car  that  was  stolen  and  he  said  he  didn't 
know,  but  he  would  give  five  thousand  to  find  it." 

"Five  thousand  is  a  lot  of  money  to  give  for  a 
car,"  Sid  suggested. 

"Old  Bill  used  to  have  lots,  they  say." 


72  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"Where'd  he  lose  his  old  car?" 

"Out  here  somewhere,"  Child  answered. 
"Wish  we  could  find  it!" 

Sid  sat  up  and  brushed  his  clothes  off.  "Why 
don't  we?  Let's  go  ask  this  Bill  Ames  all  about 
it.  Where  is  he?" 

Angel  picked  up  a  huge  bunch  of  holly  and 
got  to  his  feet.  "He  stopped  at  our  place  at 
noon,"  he  said.  "He'd  be  there  still,  I  guess. 
But  how  could  we  find  his  car?" 

"We  could  try,"  Sid  remarked  firmly. 

The  boys  set  off  down  the  wide  ravine  up 
which  they  had  climbed  and  presently  struck 
into  the  faintly  marked  trail  that  led  to  the 
Child  ranch.  An  hour's  brisk  tramp  brought 
them  to  it.  On  the  porch  enjoying  the  warm  sun- 
shine sat  Angel's  grandfather,  and  with  him  was 
an  elderly,  smartly  dressed  man  who  seemed 
always  to  be  glancing  about  him,  as  if  he  had 
dropped  a  valuable  article. 

When  Sid  had  been  introduced  he  waited  an 
opportunity  and  then  said,  "I  hear  you  lost  a 
costly  car,  Mr.  Ames." 


The  Vanished  Car  73 

"Who  told  you?"  Mr.  Ames  snapped. 

"I  heard  you  say  you'd  give  five  thousand 
dollars  to  get  hold  of  your  automobile,  sir," 
Angel  put  in. 

Grandfather  Child  puffed  at  his  pipe  and 
smiled  at  his  caller.  "Bill,  the  boys  always  get 
the  news!" 

"But  that's  old  news,"  Mr.  Ames  responded. 
"The  car  disappeared  three  years  ago  and  I 
spent  more  time  and  money  than  I  care  to  think 
about  trying  to  locate  it.  No  good.  It  had  abso- 
lutely disappeared."  He  turned  to  the  boys.  "So 
I  guess  that  five  thousand  will  stay  in  my 
pocket." 

"Then  the  car  isn't  any  good  to  you  any 
more?"  Sid  asked. 

"It  ought  to  be  worth  fifty  thousand  to  me 
this  minute,"  was  the  astounding  reply. 

"No  car  is  worth  that  much,"  was  on  the  tip 
of  Sid's  tongue,  but  he  had  learned  never  to 
make  such  assertions.  Instead  he  inquired, 
"Where  did  you  lose  it?" 

Mr.   Ames   seemed   provoked.     Grandfather 


74  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Child  waved  his  pipe  amicably.  "Oh,  you  might 
as  well  tell  7em  the  yarn,  Bill.  You  made  fuss 
enough  at  the  time.  Give  the  youngsters  some- 
thing to  chew  over.  Who  knows?  They  might 
find  your  car  for  you." 

Ames  nodded  more  pleasantly.  "I  always  get 
heated  up  when  I  think  of  how  close  I  came  to 
being  a  rich  man,"  he  returned.  "I  try  not  to 
think  of  the  affair.  But  I  ought  to  tell  the  boys 
the  story  if  only  to  punish  myself  for  my  stupid- 
ity. And  poor  old  Miss  Harris  is  still  waiting 
for  news  of  her  brother." 

All  this  did  little  to  clear  up  the  mystery. 

"Please  tell  us  from  the  start,  Mr.  Ames," 
Sid  asked. 

"Well,  I  will,"  Ames  said.  "It  was  just  three 
years  ago  last  August  that  Henry  Harris  a  pros- 
pector I  had  known  for  years,  came  to  my  office 
in  Los  Angeles  and  showed  me  a  handful  of 
nuggets. 

"  'I  picked  'em  up  out  on  the  desert/  he  told 
me.  'Grubstake  me  and  I  go  half  with  you.' 

"  Whereabouts  on  the  desert,  Henry?'   I  de- 


The  Vanished  Car  75 

manded.  'You  look  as  if  you  had  enough  gold 
there  to  live  on  for  some  time.  Why  do  you  need 
a  grubstake?' 

"Henry  sat  down  and  told  me  his  story 
straightforwardly  and  plain  and  true.  He  had 
been  prospecting  back  in  the  Calicoes  and  had 
run  out  of  grub  and  water.  He  started  back  for 
Daggett  and  got  switched  off  through  one  of 
his  burros  getting  away  from  him  and  ended  up 
by  making  for  Stoddard's  Well.  Instead  of  get- 
ting there  he  got  lost  some  way  and  was  nearly 
dead  when  he  made  camp  one  night  in  a  gully 
near  a  butte  he  didn't  know.  He  would  have 
died  if  a  storm  hadn't  come  up  and  rained  on 
him.  The  next  morning  he  was  getting  ready  to 
move  on  when  it  struck  him  that  he  might  as 
well  look  around  this  strange  place  a  while.  He 
did.  He  found  what  he  described  as  a  huge 
pocket  of  gold  lying  uncovered  in  the  edge  of 
a  wash  which  the  night's  rain  had  deepened.  He 
marked  the  spot  carefully,  put  the  stuff  in  his 
pocket,  and  made  for  the  outside.  He  got  lost 
again  and  was  four  days  reaching  Victorville. 


76  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

There  he   fed  himself   up   and   then   came   to 
see  me. 

"  The  whole  thing,  Ames,"  Henry  told  me, 
'is  that  that  stuff  lies  open  to  the  first  man  who 
comes  along.  And  there's  hundreds  of  pounds  of 
it.  I  daren't  take  anybody  with  me,  and  I  can't 
pack  the  stuff  out  on  my  back.  I  remember  that 
the  country  was  fairly  good  and  I  can  find  the 
butte  again.  But  I  want  a  first-class  automobile 
to  work  with.  I  want  to  run  it  in  as  far  as  I 
can,  leave  it  and  make  the  rest  of  the  way  on 
foot.  When  I  find  my  butte  I'll  mark  a  road 
from  it  to  the  car.  I'll  load  the  car  with  just 
enough  of  the  gravel  for  a  good  test.  But  what 
I  want  to  do  is  to  make  a  road  right  into  the 
pocket.  When  I've  done  that  I'll  send  for  you 
to  meet  me,  we  get  in  the  car  and  go  in  and  get 
the  gold  together,  on  one  trip,  and  then  we  can 
prospect  later  to  see  whether  the  ground  is  really 
rich  all  around.' 

"That  was  his  scheme.  I  knew  Billy,  and  I 
knew  he  was  honest,  or  I  thought  I  knew.  I  was 
pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  desert  around 


The  Vanished  Car  77 

the  region  he  was  talking  of,  and  I  saw  that  it 
might  take  him  months  to  locate  his  butte  on 
foot.  With  the  car  he  could  do  it  in  a  week,  if 
he  had  any  luck.  And  the  butte  once  found  it 
would  be  an  easy  matter  to  make  the  two  ruts 
which  make  a  road  in  that  country,  drive  the  car 
in  and  bring  out  the  gold.  I  staked  him  to  eight 
hundred  dollars  and  he  promised  to  wire  me 
when  he  had  found  the  butte  and  I  was  to  meet 
him  and  go  in  with  him  for  the  big  trip. 

"It  was  three  weeks  before  I  heard  from 
him.  Henry  wrote  that  he  had  located  his  butte 
finally,  but  hadn't  yet  made  the  road  to  it.  He 
had  had  to  come  in  for  provisions  and  water  and 
was  going  back  the  next  day.  When  he  had  com- 
pleted the  road  he  would  come  into  Daggett  and 
wire  me  to  meet  him.  In  his  letter  was  one  spe- 
cial bit  that  sticks  in  my  mind :  I  have  made  a 
careful  map  of  the  region  and  marked  the  butte 
on  It.  The  map  I've  sealed  up  in  a  tin  tube  and 
hidden  In  the  gas  tank.  If  anything  happens  to 
me  take  the  tube  out  and  the  map  'will  show  you' 
where  the  stuff  is. 


78  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"That  was  Henry  Harris  all  over;  he'd  pros- 
pected for  years  and  at  last  he'd  found  the 
treasure  and  he  was  going  about  getting  it  as 
carefully  as  he  had  hunted  for  it.  Or  so  it 
seemed. 

"Ten  days  later  I  received  a  telegram  from 
him  sent  from  Hector  Station  telling  me  to  meet 
him  at  Victorville  in  two  days.  I  saw  right  away 
that  Henry  was  afraid  some  one  would  discover 
his  secret.  That  was  why  he  had  driven  clear 
out  so  many  miles  to  Hector — to  throw  people 
off  the  track. 

"I  went  to  Victorville  and  waited  three  days. 
Henry  never  appeared.  I  spent  a  week  trying  to 
find  him.  I  found  he  had  left  Hector  in  the  car, 
gone  to  Daggett,  and  taken  the  Victorville  road 
by  Stoddard's  Well.  I  traced  him  along  this 
read,  which  was  not  traveled  that  year  at  all,  to 
a  point  about  eleven  miles  from  Daggett.  An- 
other prospector  had  seen  him  in  the  car  along 
in  the  forenoon  and  got  some  water  from  him. 
From  that  day  to  this  I've  heard  nothing  of 


The  Vanished  Car  79 

Henry  Harris,  the  gold,  or  the  car.  That's  my 
story,  boys." 

Greatly  interested,  Sid  and  Bob  Child  asked 
many  questions.  They  accumulated  a  little  addi- 
tional information,  but  it  seemed  to  throw  no 
further  light  on  the  mystery  of  Henry  Harris 
or  his  car. 

"Do  you  think  he  got  the  gold  and  made  off 
with  it?"  Sid  inquired,  after  some  hesitation. 

"That  was  my  idea  for  some  time,"  Mr.  Ames 
admitted.  "But  his  sister,  Ida  Harris,  whom  he 
dearly  loved,  has  never  heard  from  him,  nor  re- 
ceived any  money.  And  the  fact  remains  that 
nobody  has  ever  seen  the  car  again.  And  the  only 
way  to  find  out  all  about  it  is  to  find  the  car  and 
the  map  that  is  hidden  in  a  tin  tube  in  the  gas 
tank." 

The  scouts  went  off  and  discussed  the  matter 
for  some  time.  At  last  Child  said  roundly  that 
the  thing  was  a  mystery  and  would  never  be 
solved. 

Sid  said  nothing  at  the  time,  and  presently 


80  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

went  home.  But  all  that  night  he  dreamt  of  the 
lost  car  and  in  the  morning  he  thought  of  noth- 
ing else.  Two  days  later  he  went  to  find  Angel. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  that  lost  car  and  the 
gold  pocket,"  Sid  told  him.  "I  don't  care  if  it 
was  three  years  ago.  I'm  going  to  hunt  for  it." 

Angel  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I've  been  in 
the  Mojave  long  enough  to  know  that  hunting 
for  a  lost  article  of  any  kind  is  pretty  poor  busi- 
ness to  make  a  living  at,"  he  said.  "While  you're 
looking  I  wish  you'd  find  my  hunting  knife  I 
lost  the  other  day  picking  holly." 

"All  right,"  Sid  said  promptly.    "It's  a  go." 

"You're  a  chump,"  Child  remarked.  "You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  anything  you  drop  in 
the  desert  is  quickly  covered  up  with  sand. 
Grandfather  laid  his  rifle  down  a  few  moments 
ago  just  to  walk  a  ways  to  pick  up  a  rabbit.  He's 
never  found  the  rifle  since." 

Sid's  eyes  shone.  "If  I  find  the  knife  and  the 
rifle,  will  you  go  with  me  to  hunt  the  lost  auto- 
mobile?" 

"You'll  never  find  the  knife,  Sid." 


The  Vanished  Car  81 

"But  if  I  do?" 

"Cars  can't  be  found,  anyway,"  Angel  said. 
"But  I'll  call  it  a  bargain." 

"Now  for  the  knife,"  Sid  said. 

Much  against  his  will  Child  agreed  to  under- 
take the  search  for  his  hunting  knife.  The  scouts 
returned  to  the  hillside  where  they  had  picked 
the  holly  and  carefully  searched  for  their  old 
tracks.  When  they  found  the  trail  they  had 
made  in  the  sandy  gravel  Sid  blushingly  pro- 
duced a  large  magnet  and  tied  it  to  the  end  of 
a  cottonwood  stick.  At  first  his  companion 
laughed,  then  confessed  that  the  idea  was  worth 
trying.  Pretty  soon  they  both  became  greatly 
interested  in  poking  the  magnet  around  and  see- 
ing what  it  attracted.  Unluckily  it  was  not  very 
strong  and  they  began  to  be  discouraged.  How- 
ever in  time  Sid  stooped  and  gave  a  yell  of 
triumph.  He  held  up  the  knife,  as  brightly  shin- 
ing as  ever,  for  the  dry  air  of  the  desert  rusts 
nothing. 

"All  right,  Sid,"  Angel  Child  confessed. 
".Good  for  you!  The  idea  worked.  But  you 


82  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

can't  work  it  on  a  rifle,  for  a  rifle  weighs  nine 
pounds  and  your  magnet  wouldn't  budge  it,  nor 
feel  it  in  the  sand,  unless  you  actually  touched 
the  barrel." 

"That's  so,"  Sid  answered.  "But  I  don't  in- 
tend to  use  a  magnet  of  this  kind.  We  scouts 
along  the  Oregon  coast  have  to  learn  a  good 
many  things  about  magnetism,  and  I'm  going  to 
use  an  idea  I  got  hold  of  two  years  ago.  A  com- 
pass, as  you  know,  is  attracted  by  steel  or  iron 
that  comes  near  it.  This  attraction  works  at 
some  distance,  varying  with  the  amount  of  the 
iron  near  the  compass.  With  a  compass  needle 
we  can  go  over  the  place  where  your  grand- 
father says  he  lost  his  rifle.  When  the  compass 
needle  is  pulled  aside,  we  can  dig  down  and 
see  what's  there." 

Child  looked  puzzled,  then  grinned.  "You 
have  a  head  on  your  shoulders,  Sid.  You  found 
my  knife  all  right.  I  believe  we'll  find  the  rifle." 

The  next  day,  after  carefully  satisfying  them- 
selves as  to  the  location  where  Mr.  Child 


The  Vanished  Car  83 

thought  he  had  shot  the  rabbit  and  laid  down 
his  rifle  the  two  scouts  quietly  set  out  with  their 
compasses.  But  an  hour's  trial  convinced  them 
that  they  were  wholly  at  sea. 

"The  difficulty  is,"  Child  remarked,  "that  we 
don't  know  when  the  compass  is  pointing  away 
from  the  magnetic  north.  Every  time  we  move 
it  might  as  well  move  too,  for  we  have  nothing 
to  look  at  to  tell  us  where  the  north  is." 

"That's  true,"  Sid  confessed,  much  chagrined. 
"It  won't  work." 

As  they  trudged  back  both  boys  were  silent. 
When  they  parted  Sid  said,  "Just  the  same  I'm 
going  to  stick  to  my  scheme.  I  think  I  can  make 
it  work  some  way.  The  principle  is  right — that 
a  compass  shows  when  iron  or  steel  is  near.  I'll 
find  your  rifle  yet." 

For  several  days  Sid  spent  all  his  spare  time 
by  himself.  He  consulted  several  books  and 
finally  went  off  to  bed  one  night  grinning. 

"What  pleases  you  so  much,  Sid?"  asked  his 
Aunt  Mary. 


84  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

The  scout  laughed.  "I  hit  on  a  scheme  as  old 
as  the  hills,"  he  said.  "If  it  works  I'm  going  to 
go  after  Bill  Ames's  car." 

Mrs.  Moulton  smiled.  "Still  dreaming  of  that 
five  thousand?  I  hope  you  get  it,  Sid." 

The  next  morning  the  scout  finished  his  little 
apparatus  and  quietly  experimented  with  it. 
When  he  was  satisfied  that  it  worked  he  went 
over  and  found  Child  and  showed  it  to  him. 

"The  geographies  say  that  the  compass 
needle  goes  down  and  up  as  well  as  sideways, 
Angel,"  he  told  him.  "I  fixed  a  needle  so  that 
it  can  work  up  and  down  like  a  teeter  board. 
Look!" 

Sid  held  the  needle,  swung  between  two  little 
wooden  posts  so  that  it  hovered  level  like  a 
board  balanced  on  a  cross  piece,  over  a  crow- 
bar. One  end  promptly  tipped  downward  and 
remained  there. 

"You've  got  something  "  Child  exclaimed.  "I 
can  see  that.  Let's  not  say  a  word.  If  we  find 
grandfather's  rifle  he'll  think  scouts  are  real 
people." 

It  took  them  three  afternoons  of  hard  work 


The  Vanished  Car  85 

with  the  delicate  instrument  Sid  had  devised,  but 
in  due  time  the  needle  suddenly  dipped  and  the 
boys  swiftly  dug  where  it  indicated.  The  rifle 
quickly  appeared. 

"I  never!"  said  Angel  Child,  astounded  at 
their  success. 

Sid  smiled  modestly.  "It  took  time,  but  we 
showed  that  the  idea  was  all  right,"  he  re- 
sponded. 

"Now  we'll  have  a  try  for  Bill  Ames's  lost 
car." 

Child  made  no  response  to  this.  But  after 
Grandfather  Child  had  expressed  his  delight  at 
the  recovery  of  the  rifle  and  assumed  that  they 
had  merely  run  on  it  by  accident,  Sid  took  his 
brother  scout  aside. 

"You  thought  I  was  joking  when  I  said  I 
wanted  you  to  help  me  find  the  car.  I'm  in 
earnest." 

"You're  crazy!" 

"I'm  not!" 

"No  big  automobile  could  just  get  buried  in 
the  sand  like  a  knife  or  a  rifle." 

"We  don't  know  for  sure.  All  we  know  is  that 


86  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

a  car  and  a  man  both  vanished  completely  on 
an  old,  imtraveled  road.  Let's  scout  along  that 
road  first  and  then  figure  it  out,"  Sid  insisted. 

"It's  miles  back.  The  folks  won't  let  us  go." 

"I'll  have  a  talk  with  Uncle  Joe.  Maybe  he'll 
think  the  notion  is  worth  while,  Angel." 

Further  debate  ended  in  both  boys  agreeing 
to  leave  the  matter  in  Mr.  Moulton's  hands. 

Mr.  Moulton  that  night  listened  to  his 
nephew's  story  and  made  no  comment  for  some 
time.  Then  he  said  quietly,  "I  am  sure  you  are 
wrong  about  the  car.  The  thing  is  impossible. 
But  because  you've  used  your  head  and  found 
both  Bob  Child's  knife  and  his  grandfather's 
rifle,  I'm  going  to  help  you  as  far  as  I  can.  I'll 
drive  you  over  the  Daggett — Stoddard's  Well — 
Victorville  road." 

"That's  all  I  ask,  sir,"  Sid  replied,  well  satis- 
fied. "Can  Angel  go  along?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Moulton  with  a  smile. 
"I  can  see  you're  more  anxious  to  convince  him 
than  you  are  to  make  me  believe  you  can  find 
that  lost  automobile." 


The  Vanished  Car  87 

On  a  fine  day  not  long  after  Mr.  Moulton 
drove  the  two  scouts  to  Daggett  and  then  turned 
off  on  the  road  to  Stoddard's  Well.  Before  they 
had  traversed  half  a  dozen  miles  Sid  began  to 
see  how  hopeless  his  idea  looked.  But  he  said 
nothing,  keeping  eyes  and  ears  open  for  every 
unusual  feature  of  the  desolate  landscape. 

The  road  was  by  no  means  bad  for  a  little 
traveled  desert  trail,  and  wound  around  among 
fantastic  slopes  covered  with  chaparral  and 
sparse  sage.  Here  and  there  it  crossed  a  wash 
where  the  water  of  some  cloudburst  had  cut  its 
way  down.  But  it  was,  as  Mr.  Moulton  said, 
impossible  to  conceive  of  a  car  being  swallowed 
up. 

"And  anyway,  the  driver  would  climb  out  and 
get  to  town,"  Sid  told  himself. 

They  reached  Stoddard's  Well  and  began  the 
long  rounding  of  the  lower  slopes  of  Granite 
Mountain.  Still  the  car  progressed  over  a  coun- 
try that  seemed  incapable  of  hiding  a  man,  much 
less  a  car.  They  reached  Victorville  and  re- 
turned to  the  ranch. 


88  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

That  night  Mr.  Moulton  glanced  at  Sid,  and 
said,  "Well?" 

The  scout  flushed.  "I've  been  thinking  that 
that  car  was  somewhere  near  where  we  passed, 
sir.  One  can't  get  away  from  the  facts.  This 
man  Harris  drove  that  car  from  Daggett  on  the 
road  to  Victorville.  He  was  seen  heading  for 
Victorville.  He  never  got  there,  and  neither  he 
nor  the  car  were  ever  seen  anywhere  else.  They 
are  both  there  on  that  road,  or  near  by." 

Mr.  Moulton  nodded.  "I  never  was  specially 
interested  in  the  affair,"  he  told  Sid.  "But  I  do 
believe  in  not  dropping  a  thing  that  promises  a 
hope.  Your  scheme  sounds  fantastic,  but  there's 
no  denying  that  it's  sound  at  bottom.  The  car 
couldn't  be  found.  It's  not  on  the  surface.  Be- 
cause a  superficial  search  didn't  disclose  it,  and 
because  it  seems  impossible  for  a  car  to  bury 
itself,  people  simply  gave  the  matter  up.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  for  the  next  week.  If  you  like, 
we'll  take  Bob  Child  and  go  at  this  problem  on 
the  assumption  that  the  lost  automobile  is  buried 


The  Vanished  Car  89 

somewhere  along  the  Daggett — Victorville  road, 
road.  Is  that  fair?" 

Sid  nodded.  The  fairness  of  his  uncle's  atti- 
tude struck  him  as  admirable.  He  was  proud  of 
him. 

"Now  there  are  several  things  to  find  out  be- 
fore we  begin  this  search,"  Mr.  Moulton  went 
on.  "First,  we  want  to  know  what  the  weather 
was  on  the  day  Harris  left  Daggett.  You  know 
this  desert  has  all  kinds  of  weather  and  it  may 
be  a  wild  storm  in  one  place  while  it's  perfectly 
clear  ten  miles  away." 

"I've  found  out  that  there  was  a  sand  storm," 
Sid  answered  quietly. 

His  uncle  rewarded  him  with  a  glance.  "That 
gives  us  some  encouragement,"  he  went  on,  "but 
not  much.  Was  there  any  cloud  in  the  sky?" 

"Nobody  knows,  sir." 

"We'll  find  out,"  his  uncle  returned. 

"Can  you,  after  three  years?"  the  scout  asked 
curiously. 

Mr.  Moulton  related  some  of  his  own  ex- 


90  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

periences,  and  how  he  had  several  times  been 
caught  by  a  flood  that  seemed  to  come  out  of  a 
clear  sky.  "There  is  a  cloudburst  on  some  peak," 
he  explained,  "that  may  be  hidden  from  view. 
The  water  rushes  down  the  easiest  channel  in 
great  volume  and  you  come  around  a  corner  to 
plunge  into  a  gully  brimming  over.  It's  possible 
that  Harris  did  this,  though  how  an  old-timer 
like  him  could  be  caught  that  way  beats  my  corn- 
prehension." 

On  the  basis  of  Sid's  theory  of  compass-dip, 
and  his  uncle's  belief  that  the  burying  of  the 
car  in  a  wash  by  a  sudden  flood  was  possible, 
they  set  to  work.  Angel  Child  promptly  agreed, 
with  his  grandfather's  consent,  to  make  one  of 
the  party,  and  they  set  out. 

"Anyway,  we  only  have  to  examine  the  road," 
Angel  remarked.  "It's  less  than  forty  miles 
long." 

But  a  week  later  they  had  to  confess  that  either 
the  compass  needle  had  failed  them,  or  the  car 
was  buried  nowhere  along  the  road.  They  had 
found  many  washes  that  appeared  to, have  car- 


The  Vanished  Car  91 

ried  flood  waters,  they  dug  up  a  couple  of  old 
steel  wagon  gears  and  a  crowbar,  but  no  car. 

"This  proves  that  the  magnetic  needle  does 
dip  visibly  when  iron  is  under  it,"  Mr.  Moulton 
said,  as  they  stopped  for  supper  on  the  high  hills 
above  Victorville.  "That  seems  to  point  to  the 
fact  that  Harris's  car  never  was  buried  along 
the  road." 

Sid  had  been  thoughtful  all  day.  Now  he 
voiced  his  conclusions.  "It  must  have  been  dark 
by  the  time  Harris  passed  Stoddard's  Well,  if 
he  did  pass  it.  If  he  had  had  engine  trouble  it 
would  have  been  dark  before  he  reached  it. 
There  were  several  old  tracks,  almost  obliter- 
ated, that  led  off  in  either  direction  from  the 
real  road.  Couldn't  he  have  taken  one  by  mis- 
take?" 

Mr.  Moulton  pondered  this  and  agreed  to  a 
further  expedition.  Three  days  later  they  found 
a  road  that  had  been  disused  for  years,  appar- 
ently, which  led  off  towards  Granite  Mountain. 
It  was  a  mere  blurred  trail  of  two  ruts. 

"Our  last  chance,"  said  Sid's  uncle.  "We  shall 


92  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

have  to  get  more  water  and  leave  the  car  here> 
and  make  it  on  foot." 

With  their  canteens  and  water  bags  replen- 
ished they  returned  to  the  turn-off,  took  their 
light  packs,  and  set  out.  It  was  a  fine  cool  morn- 
ing and  everything  was  visible,  clean  to  the  dim, 
azure  wall  of  the  Sierra  Nevadas.  The  road 
they  were  to  try  to  trace  was  almost  invisible. 
Here  and  there  it  led  over  pebbly  rises  that  car- 
ried no  mark  of  wheels.  But  each  time  the  boys 
recovered  it  and  for  a  couple  of  hours  they 
plodded  on,  Sid  using  his  magnetic  needle  con- 
scientiously. Finally  they  came  to  the  brink  of 
a  steep  barranca  that  offered  a  fissurelike  open- 
ing up  the  slope.  The  wheel  tracks  stopped 
abruptly.  The  three  of  them  stared  down  into 
the  rugged  chasm. 

"It  was  here,"  Sid  murmured. 

Mr.  Moulton  gazed  thoughtfully  up  and 
down  the  great  gully  and  nodded. 

"It's  quite  possible.  Harris  might  have  mis- 
taken the  road  and  driven  up  here  and  gone  over 
the  crest.  His  car  would  simply  slither  down 


The  Vanished  Car  93 

helplessly  and  if  there  was  a  flood  in  the  wash 
he  would  inevitably  be — be  wrecked." 

They  slid  down  the  bank  of  the  barranca  and 
found  that  dry,  fine  sand  had  been  blown  in  to 
make  a  very  thin  covering  for  a  mass  of  boul- 
ders, jagged  rocks,  yucca  branches,  greasewood 
roots,  and  the  refuse  of  years  of  the  desert's  slow 
disintegration. 

Sid  suspended  the  needle  close  to  the  ground. 
It  showed  no  movement. 

"The  car  might  have  been  carried  down  a 
long  ways,"  his  uncle  remarked. 

They  explored  the  gully  for  hours.  Suddenly 
Angel  Child  ran  up  the  bank  to  a  greasewood 
and  disentangled  a  bit  of  cloth,  long  since  rotted 
by  the  dry  air  into  a  kind  of  charred  texture.  He 
brought  his  find  down  and  Mr.  Moulton  ex- 
amined it. 

"It's  the  pocket  from  some  overalls,"  he  said, 
and  carefully  pulled  the  material  apart.  A  bit 
of  paper  showed.  He  drew  it  slowly  out  and 
opened  its  crackling  folds. 

From  that  dingy,  brown  bit  of  paper  dim  let- 


94  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

ters  stared  up  at  them,  the  ink  turned  to  a  kind  of 
purple  bronze  by  the  arid  desert  air.  Mr.  Moul- 
ton  read  the  words  slowly: 

H.  Harris, 

Vic lie  .  . 

ornia. 

"This  is  where  Harris  met  his  fate,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"But  where  is  he?"  Angel  demanded. 

Mr.  Moulton  explained  slowly.  "He  had 
rolled  his  overalls,  probably,  and  tucked  them 
somewhere  in  the  back  of  his  car.  When  the 
flood  washed  the  car  away  it  swept  the  overalls 
away  and  they  naturally  floated  on  the  surface. 
They  got  torn  among  the  mass  of  roots  and 
bushes  and  finally  one  bit  caught  in  that  grease- 
wood  up  there  where  you  found  it.  The  water 
went  down  and  this  remained  to  tell  the  story." 

"That  bush  is  fifteen  feet  above  the  bottom  of 
the  wash,"  Sid  put  in. 

His  uncle  nodded.  "The  water  was  fifteen  feet 
deep  where  the  car  plunged  in." 


The  Vanished  Car  95 

Now  that  they  knew  that  somewhere  Harris 
and  his  car  lay  buried  in  this  gully,  they  set  to 
work  eagerly. 

"The  overalls  would  float  farther  down  stream 
than  the  car  would,"  Sid  suggested. 

"Certainly,"  Mr.  Moulton  agreed.  "So  we 
work  above  the  greasewood  bush  where  Angel 
found  the  paper." 

As  long  as  they  live  neither  scout  will  ever 
forget  that  night  when  they  feverishly  climbed 
up  the  wash  with  the  delicate  needle  poised 
above  the  ground.  A  full  moon  shone  down  on 
them.  The  wind  rushed  overhead  with  a  wild 
note.  From  the  remote  distance  came  the  yip- 
yip-yip  of  hunting  coyotes  or  the  cry  of  a  wild 
cat.  Now  and  then  an  owl  swished  by,  a  mere 
blub  of  soft  darkness.  And  the  rocks  of  the  wash 
glimmered  underfoot  and  dead  wood  flamed 
with  feeble  phosphorescence. 

When  they  were  thoroughly  exhausted  and 
had  sat  down  to  rest  and  munch  some  bread  and 
butter,  Mr.  Moulton  looked  curiously  at  the 
scouts'  pale  faces. 


96  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"Hard  work  for  that  reward  old  Bill  Ames 
offered?" 

Sid  glanced  away  shyly.  "It  isn't  the  money, 
sir,"  he  murmured. 

Angel  Child  nodded  solemnly.  "I  never  could 
forgive  old  Ames  for  letting  on  Harris  was 
crooked,"  he  remarked. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "After  all,  this  is  merely  a 
way  of  saving  Harris's  good  name.  Well,  I 
kind  of  felt  mad  myself  when  Ames  always  sug- 
gested that  maybe  Harris  ran  off  with  the  money, 
and  the  map.  But  we  have  pretty  good  proof 
that  Harris  is  dead  and  that  he  perished  in  this 
wash  while  trying  to  get  to  Ames  with  the  map 
and  the  details  of  his  treasure  find." 

They  said  no  more  of  the  subject  uppermost 
in  their  minds.  Dawn  found  them  still  at  work. 
The  sun  came  up  and  the  desert  leaped  to  life. 
But  Sid  did  not  notice  the  change  in  the  air. 
He  was  kneeling  on  a  small  boulder  with  his 
suspended  needle  held  gently  above  the  sand. 
One  end  was  dipping.  He  moved  a  trifle.  The 
little  bar  of  magnetized  steel  resumed  the  hori- 


The  Vanished  Car  97 

zontal.  He  moved  the  other  way.  It  quivered, 
dipped  slightly.  He  moved  a  yard  up  the  wash. 
The  needle  suddenly  and  determinedly  swung 
into  the  perpendicular  and  stayed  there,  point- 
ing downward  to  something  hidden  below  the 
surface,  as  if  after  years  of  oblivion  something 
under  that  rugged  ground  had  wakened  to  some 
inaudible  call  and  answered  it.  The  needle 
shook.  Mr.  Moulton  stooped  over.  Sid  was 
shaking  with  excitement;  then  he  gulped. 

"You  have  found  Harris,"  Mr.  Moulton  said 
in  an  odd  tone.  He  thrust  a  whittled  stick  down 
into  the  yielding  sand  at  the  spot  the  needle  indi- 
cated. Sid  got  up  and  put  his  apparatus  away. 
Angel  brought  a  few  stones  and  heaped  them 
about  the  thin  wand  that  marked  the  prospector's 
grave  where  he  lay  with  his  car. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Moulton,  "we'll  go  back 
home,  rest  up,  and  come  here  with  shovels  and 
ropes." 

"Why  not  dig  now,  sir?"  cried  Angel  Child. 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Moulton  gravely,  "that 


98  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

old  Bill  Ames  ought  to  do  some  of  the  digging. 
It  will  do  him  good." 

Four  days  later,  on  a  day  when  the  sand  swept 
upward  from  the  floor  of  the  dry  lakes  to  mingle 
with  the  scurrying  clouds,  when  the  air  was 
filled  with  fine  particles  of  mineral  matter  and 
every  gust  chilled  a  man  to  the  bone,  Mr.  Moul- 
ton's  car  struggled  along  the  old  road  to  the 
brink  of  the  barranca.  In  it  were  Sid  and  his 
uncle,  Angel  Child,  and  old  Bill  Ames.  The 
latter  seemed  to  be  there  against  his  will. 

They  stopped,  pulled  out  pickaxes  and  shovels 
and  several  coils  of  rope.  Then  in  silence  they 
went  down  the  floor  of  the  great  barranca  till 
they  came  to  the  white  stick  that  marked  the 
spot  the  magnetic  needle  had  indicated. 

"How  do  you  know  the  car  is  here?"  Mr. 
Ames  demanded,  his  eyes  glancing  furtively 
around.  "This  all  sounds  fishy  to  me,  Moulton." 

"The  magnetic  needle  doesn't  lie,"  was  the 
terse  answer. 

An  hour  later  they  uncovered  a  wheel,  still 
rimmed  with  cracked  rubber.  The  boys  labored 


The  Vanished  Car  99 

strenuously.  They  slowly  disclosed  the  old  car, 
which  lay  on  one  side  ...  at  dusk  they  pulled 
it  upright  with  the  ropes  attached  to  Mr.  Moul- 
ton's  car  on  the  bank.  To  the  creak  of  the  cable 
and  the  coughing  of  the  toiling  engine  the  bat- 
tered structure  left  the  bed  it  had  lain  in  for 
three  years  and  lurched  to  its  wheels.  Sid  took 
off  his  cap  and  gazed  down.  White  bones  glim- 
mered there,  a  skull  looked  up  out  of  eyeless 
sockets. 

"Your  old  partner,  Ames!"  Mr.  Moulton  said 
quietly.  "The  man  you  suspected  of  treachery. 
There  he  is.  He  was  on  his  way  to  make  you 
rich." 

They  lifted  the  bones  out  and  laid  them  de- 
cently in  a  blanket.  Then  Mr.  Moulton  turned 
the  lights  of  his  car  down  on  the  wreck. 

"The  gas  tank!"  Mr.  Ames  croaked  feverishly. 

With  a  blow  of  the  pickaxe  Mr.  Moulton 
ripped  the  crumpled  tank  wide  open.  From  its 
dry  interior  rolled  a  small  tin  tube.  Sid  picked 
it  up  and  handed  it  to  his  uncle. 

"That's  yours,  Ames,"  he  remarked. 


100  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Mr.  Ames  thrust  it  into  his  pocket.  His 
attitude  was  that  of  a  man  who  was  not  going  to 
trust  his  secret  with  his  companions.  At  the  in- 
sult Mr.  Moulton  laughed. 

"Keep  your  map  and  your  treasure,"  he  said. 
"It  was  Henry  Harris  we  were  after.  You  spent 
thousands  looking  for  the  secret  directions  to  find 
a  fortune.  I  speak  for  the  boys  when  I  say  we 
don't  want  any  of  the  stuff.  Keep  your  old  map. 
We  have  Harris.  His  sister  will  know  that  he 
died  an  honest  man,  driving  through  a  desert 
storm  to  find  you  and  share  his  wealth  with  you." 

Old  Bill  Ames  licked  his  dry  lips  as  he  stood 
in  the  full  glare  of  the  lamps  from  the  car  on 
the  bank.  He  reached  into  his  pocket  and  drew 
out  the  tube  with  a  shamefaced  and  trembling 
gesture. 

"I  always  aim  to  play  fair,"  he  faltered.  "I'm 
an  honest  man,  Moulton.  YouVe  no  call  to 
scold  me  this  way — before  these  boys.  I'll  re- 
ward 'em  well.  How  was  I  to  know  Henry 
Harris  had  played  square?" 

"He  was  your  friend,"  Mr.  Moulton  replied 


(The  Vanished  (Wr..;.  •  !0iv 

sternly.  TKen  he  stopped  and  stared.  Ames  had 
twisted  the  tin  tube  in  his  eager  hands  and  it 
had  sprung  open  at  the  seam.  Inside  was  a  little 
wisp  of  dried  paper.  It  fell  into  fragments  and 
flitted  away  before  the  night  gale.  The  secret  the 
tube  had  held  and  for  which  Henry  Harris  had 
lost  his  life  and  old  Bill  Ames  his  honor  was 
lost  forever. 

But  Sid  and  Angel  thought  they  had  won, 
after  all.  They  had  restored  Henry  Harris  to 
an  honorable  place  among  those  who  knew  him. 


THE  MAGI  OF  THE  MOJAVE 

FOR  a  week  Sid  and  Angel  had  been  watch- 
ing the  weather.  Christmas  was  coming, 
the  season  that  California  celebrates  in  sunshine 
with  flowers.  But  the  Mojave  Desert  has  its 
peculiarities.  Its  spring  is  often  earlier  than  that 
of  the  coast.  Its  summer  is  frequently  cooler  and 
in  winter  it  has  been  known  to  withdraw  itself 
from  the  rest  of  the  semi-tropics  and  swirl  with 
snow  and  howl  with  wind  and  spread  a  blanket 
of  dazzling  white  from  the  San  Bernardinos  to 
the  Amargosas.  Because  the  Morongo  Indians 
— who  are  weather-  and  water-wise  mumbled 
that  it  would  be  a  dry  year  with  much  cold,  Sid's 
uncle  had  spent  sveral  days  accumulating  an  ex- 
tra supply  of  firewood  and  openly  stated  that  the 
boys  would  see  snow  at  Christmas. 

"You  see,  every  morning  is  clear,"  Sid  ex- 
plained to  his  brother  scout,  "but  each  noon  the 
clouds  bank  up  above  the  San  Bernardinos,  then 

102 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  103 

over  the  Tehachipis,  then  over  the  Calicoes,  and 
pretty  soon  the  sun  is  hidden  and  that  horribly 
cold  wind  begins  to  sing  in  the  sage." 

"It's  odd  weather  for  the  desert,"  Child  ad- 
mitted. "And  Sam  Woods,  who's  been  here 
thirty  years,  told  me  the  other  day  in  Victorville 
he  saw  four  feet  of  snow  on  the  level  once,  right 
along  the  river.  And  that  was  a  dry  year  else- 
where, too,  like  this." 

"Anyway,  I'd  like  to  see  snow,"  Sid  remarked. 

Angel  Child  nodded,  but  gravely.  "It  makes 
it  hard  for  people  who  live  in  shacks  out  on 
some  of  these  roads,  Sid.  I  heard  a  woman  and 
her  two  children  were  found  several  years  ago 
after  they'd  been  dead  several  weeks;  nobody 
went  that  way." 

"That's  it,"  Sid  agreed.  "Nobody  misses  'em. 
The  desert  is  full  of  folks  nobody  ever  thinks  of 
unless  they  see  them.  Nobody  knows  where  they 
live,  nor  who  they  are.  Some  day,  some  one  is 
asked  about  a  letter,  and  remembers  them." 

"I'd  hate  to  spend  Christmas  alone — like  some 
people  I  know," 


104  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Sid  grinned.  "I  guess  we  shan't  spend  it  alone. 
Uncle  Joe  has  already  invited  a  lot  and  I  went 
yesterday  to  Howard's  and  got  two  turkeys." 

"Two?"  Angel  repeated  slowly. 

"Two.  And  the  house  is  simply  stacked  with 
desert  holly  and  mistletoe,  and  Aunt  Mary  is  all 
the  time  going  off  to  whisper  to  Uncle  Joe  and 
Big  Rich  asked  me  whether  the  32's  fit  or  not." 

"You  people  have  no  32  rifle,"  Angel  said 
skeptically. 

"We  didn't;'  Sid  confessed,  smiling.  "But 
why  did  Uncle  Joe  ask  Rich  to  get  him  32 
cartridges?" 

"Gee!"  Angel  responded  frivolously.  "If  you 
get  a  rifle,  we'll  go  hunting  for  mountain  sheep." 

"I  saw  a  fellow  that  saw  a  band  of  mountain 
sheep  week  before  last  on  the  road  from  Old 
Woman's  Well  to  Le  Conti  Springs,"  Sid  re- 
plied. Then  his  face  fell.  "I  forgot.  He  said 
that  woman  whom  we  saw  in  the  Victorville 
post  office  had  left  the  place  she  was  living  on 
and  nobody  knew  where  she  had  gone.  They 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  105 

think  she  got  sick  and  tried  to  get  somewhere  and 
got  lost  in  the  desert." 

"That  girl  who  said  her  name  was  Mrs.  Sparl- 
ing?" Angel  asked.  "She  looked  sick,  Sid." 

"And  she  was  kind  of  sad,  too,"  the  other  re- 
marked reflectively.  "I  don't  think  she  really 
belonged  out  here.  I  wonder  if  she  ever  got  the 
letter  she  came  for?" 

Both  lads  stared  at  each  other.  Angel  slowly 
assumed  an  expression  of  supreme  indifference. 
Sid  hit  him  a  sound  thwack  in  the  ribs. 

"It's  still  five  days  to  Christmas,  Angel.  I 
don't  see  why  it  isn't  up  to  us  to  find  that  poor 
lady.  We  can  see  Miss  Messick  at  the  post  office 
and  find  out  where  she  was  supposed  to  live." 

"Way  out  beyond  Box  S,"  Angel  returned. 
"How'll  we  get  there?" 

"Easy,"  Sid  replied,  and  promptly  went  off  to 
see  his  uncle.  He  returned  with  the  news  that 
Mr.  Moulton  could  spare  the  car  for  the  rest 
of  that  day.  "We'll  have  to  pay  for  the  gas  and 
oil  ourselves,  "  he  added. 


106  Scouts  of  the 'Desert 

They  scraped  their  pockets  and  figured  that 
they  could  buy  five  gallons,  and  this  purchase 
they  made  an  hour  later  in  Victorville.  Then 
they  inquired  at  the  post  office  about  Mrs. 
Sparling. 

"There  are  two  letters  for  her,"  the  postmis- 
tress reported.  "She  hasn't  called  for  her  mail 
in  a  couple  of  months.  She  used  to  live  near  the 
Black  Hawk  ranch." 

"I  know  where  that  is,"  Angel  told  Sid.  "Let's 

go." 

They  left  Victorville,  crossed  the  river  on 
the  bridge  that  spans  the  Mojave  gorge  where 
it  is  narrowest,  climbed  the  rocky  road  going 
east,  and  were  soon  speeding  along  on  the  Bear 
Valley  highway.  At  Box  S  ranch,  twenty-two 
miles  out,  they  stopped  for  talk  with  a  Lucerne 
Valley  orchardist  who  warned  them  about  a 
coming  storm. 

"The  fourth  or  fifth  day  of  this  kind  of 
weather,"  he  told  the  boys,  "it  comes  on  to  snow, 
with  a  high  wind.  In  an  hour  this  desert  is  as 
trackless  as  a  table  top. 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  107 

"Seen  Mrs.  Sparling  lately?"  Sid  asked. 

"No.  She  was  a  most  likely  young  woman, 
too.  What  a  shame  her  husband  didn't  support 
her!" 

"Didn't  he?"  Angel  said  sweetly. 

The  tone  brought  a  flush  to  the  honest  ranch- 
er's cheek.  "You  young  rapscallions!"  he  re- 
torted. "Who  are  you  to  disbelieve  as  fair  a  bit 
of  gossip  as  ever  was  tattled?  To  be  sure,  I  never 
heard  the  facts,  nor  anybody  else,  so  far  as  I  can 
tell.  But  it's  allowed  by  all  concerned  that  her 
husband  does  not  support  her — if  he  is  alive." 

Sid  grinned.  "I  guess  she  never  told  any  one 
her  business.  They  say  she's  disappeared." 

"Probably  gone  across  the  mountains  for 
Christmas,"  the  man  suggested. 

The  scouts  rode  on  along  a  road  that  passed 
several  abandoned  "dry  ranches"  —  houses 
boarded  up,  fences  drifted  over  with  sand, 
clearings  dotted  with  sage,  scanned  the  settle- 
ment of  Lucerne  riding  high  on  the  northern 
hills,  and  plunged  on  into  the  deeper  sands  of 
the  easterly  desert.  When  they  came  to  a  wooden 


108  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

sign  marked  BLACK  HAWK  the  vague  ruts 
showed  that  none  had  traveled  that  way  for  a 
long  time. 

"That's  the  house  she  camped  in,  Angel," 
Sid  remarked,  pointing  to  an  almost  invisible 
cabin  a  couple  of  miles  away.  "I  move  we  try 
to  get  there.  At  any  rate,  we'll  know  she's  not 
there — if  she's  not." 

The  car  made  some  demur  at  having  to  travel 
where  no  traffic  had  been,  but  Sid  eased  it  along 
and  pretty  soon  they  hit  harder  going  and  within 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  arrived  at  the  small 
cabin  where  Mrs.  Sparling  had  lived.  The  cur- 
tains were  drawn  at  the  windows,  the  screen  door 
was  covered  with  a  single  cracked  board,  sand 
had  sifted  over  the  doorstep.  About  the  house  a 
few  tracks  showed  that  coyotes  only  had  visited 
the  spot.  The  scouts  stared  at  each  other  and  then 
went  around  to  the  back  and  kicked  in  the  door. 
Once  inside  they  peered  around  in  the  half-dark- 
ness. A  table  spread  with  dusty  dishes,  a  bed  with 
a  bare  mattress  on  its  cheap  springs,  a  chair,  a 
lamp  with  a  cracked  chimney,  and  a  dried-out 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojavt*  109 

water  barrel  completed  the  furniture.  They  in- 
vestigated a  closet  and  a  small  room.  Nothing 
showed  trace  of  an  inhabitant. 

"She  really  left,"  Sid  murmured,  sneezing  as 
the  dust  rose  underfoot. 

Angel  had  raised  a  curtain  and  was  staring 
around  him  curiously. 

"Look!"  he  whispered.  "That  table  is  set  for 
three  people.  Three  plates,  three  cups,  three 
knives,  three  forks,  and  three  spoons!  I  thought 
they  said  that  Mrs.  Sparling  lived  by  herself." 

"She  told  us  that,"  Sid  corrected  him,  "that 
day  when  we  saw  her  in  Victorville  and  she 
asked  us  about  the  stage  going  to  Berdoo." 

"But  everybody  says  that,  too!" 

"Anyway,  the  table  was  set  for  three,"  Sid 
confessed. 

"This  was  her  house,"  Child  pursued,  point- 
ing to  a  magazine  cover  pasted  on  the  wall,  with 
its  penciled  inscription:  Eugenia  Sparling. 

"But  where  did  she  go?"  Sid  insisted.  "If 
she'd  gone  out  with  anybody,  the  word  would 
have  been  passed  around.  But  nobody's  seen  her. 


110  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

There's  no  way  of  leaving  the  desert  except  by 
Bear  Valley — which  is  closed  by  snow  in  the 
winter — or  by  Hesperia  or  Victorville." 

"And  if  she'd  gone  out,  her  people  would 
know  it,"  Angel  agreed.  "And  they're  writing  to 
her  at  Victorville." 

Sid  nodded.  "She's  moved.  Why,  we  don't 
know.  You  remember,  she  looked  sick  and  tired 
that  day,  though  she's  young.  And  she  was  nerv- 
ous, too.  She  wouldn't  go  to  the  post  office  her- 
self for  her  mail,  but  told  us  to  get  it.  And  if 
she's  moved,  she's  left  some  word  where." 

They  searched  the  cabin  high  and  low  and 
finally  found  what  appeared  to  be  a  brief  mes- 
sage on  a  card  tucked  in  one  side  of  an  old- 
fashioned,  broken  mirror.  The  boys  stared  at 
the  writing,  which  was  the  same  as  that  on  the 
magazine  cover  on  the  wall.  Its  message  was  an 
odd  one: 

You'll  find  me  under  your  own  vine  and  fig 
tree. 

They  looked  at  the  other  side  of  the  card.  On 
this  was  written : 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  111) 

Billie  boy/ 

"Huh!"  Sid  sniffed.  "I  guess  there' re  no  fig 
trees  in  this  desert." 

Angel  Child's  eyes  were  bright.  "Yes,  there 
are,  Sid !  And  right  by  the  fig  tree  is  a  grape- 
vine. But  it's  miles  from  here — way  beyond 
Old  Woman's  Springs." 

Both  scout?  were  silent.  Old  Woman's 
Springs  lies  forty  miles  east  of  Victorville  and 
civilization.  The  road  to  that  desolate  region 
lay  along  the  floor  of  the  barren  valley  like  a 
narrow  ribbon  of  white  amid  the  universal  gray. 

"That  would  account  for  nobody  seing  her  go 
out,"  Sid  said,  wrinkling  his  forehead  over  the 
problem.  "It's  a  funny  thing,  any  way  you  look 
at  it.  Mrs.  Sparling  comes  here  from  nobody 
knows  where,  camps  in  this  Heaven-forsaken 
place  for  months  without  a  soul  seeming  to  care, 
and  then  quietly  vanishes.  And  she  leaves  this 
message  about  going  to  live  under  somebody's 
own  fig  tree." 

"I  know  where  that  is,  too." 

"How  do  you  know?" 


112  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Child  snorted.  "Didn't  I  go  out  two  years  ago 
to  see  the  Yeagers  round  up  some  wild  horses? 
And  I  passed  a  house  in  the  valley  beyond  Negro 
Butte  witft  an  old  well  on  it  and  by  the  well  a 
fig  tree.  And  a  grapevine.  Yeager  said  the 
people  had  moved  away  ten  years  before — that 
other  dry  year  we  had.  Yeager's  been  at  Old 
Woman's  Springs  for  thirty  years." 

"Game?"  Sid  inquired. 

"Sure.  We  can  make  it  in  an  hour  if  the  wash 
isn't  too  bad." 

They  easily  retraced  their  road  to  the  main 
highway  and  resumed  their  course  eastward. 
Presently  the  valley  they  were  traveling  in  nar- 
rowed and  its  floor  began  to  be  deeper  sand  and 
sparser  brush.  But  in  due  time  they  crossed  the 
heel  of  a  low  butte  and  caught  sight  of  the  leaf- 
less limbs  of  some  cottonwoods  beside  some 
small,  sun-shrunk  buildings. 

"Cottonwood  Springs,"  Sid  announced,  pull- 
ing up  out  of  the  rocky  wash  to  smoother  ground. 

"See  the  fig  tree?"  Angel  demanded  eagerly. 
"That's  the  first  one.  We  take  that  road  going  to 
the  left  to  get  to  the  other." 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  1 13 

"Why  not  go  on  the  rest  of  the  two  miles  and 
see  if  the  people  at  Old  Woman's  Springs  know 
anything  about  Mrs.  Sparling?"  Sid  suggested. 
Angel  vetoed  this.  "We've  got  only  three  hours 
to  get  back  to  Victorville  in,"  he  said. 

The  car  obediently  swerved  into  a  little  trav- 
eled track  that  led  down  the  easy  slope  of  the 
valley  towards  a  low  range  of  barren  hills.  It 
was  smooth  going  and  in  twenty  minutes  the 
boys  had  lost  sight  of  all  landmarks  and  were 
speeding  along  towards  a  broad  stretch  of  level 
country  without  tree  or  rock  to  break  the  mo- 
notony. Suddenly  and  most  unexpectedly  the 
road  dipped  into  a  depression  a  mile  wide  and 
going  directly  from  one  side  of  the  valley  to  the 
other.  Set  in  this  amongst  gray  sage  was  a  low, 
long  cabin  with  three  cottonwoods  lifting  gaunt 
branches  into  the  sunless  air. 

"Somebody's  living  there,"  Sid  murmured. 

Angel  laughed.  "See  the  fig  tree  behind  the 
house?" 

"Sure  enough." 

"And  there's  a  big  grapevine  the  other  side. 
The  well  was  dug  ages  ago  by  Spanish  cattle- 


114  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

men.  It's  all  bricked  up  with  thin  flat  bricks  like 
the  Spanish  made  and  a  pump  that  works  from 
an  old-fashioned  windmill." 

"I  see  no  windmill,"  Sid  answered,  turning 
the  car  into  a  road  leading  to  the  cabin. 

"It's  gone,  long  ago.  But  one  can  draw  water 
in  a  bucket." 

The  car  slithered  to  a  stop  in  the  flourlike 
sand  and  the  scouts  climbed  out  and  went  to  the 
door.  Their  knock  was  promptly  answered  by  a 
call  from  within.  They  answered  it  and  entered, 
A  woman  lying  on  a  bed  turned  her  white  face 
to  them.  The  scouts  doffed  caps  respectfully. 

"Mrs.  Sparling,  there's  some  letters  for  you 
at  the  post  office  in  Victorville,"  Sid  said  awk- 
wardly. 

The  woman  smiled  faintly.  They  saw  that  she 
was  both  feverish  and  weak.  And  somehow  they 
knew  that  their  intrusion  was  not  welcomed. 
They  backed  out.  Mrs.  Sparling  beckoned  them. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  here,  boys?" 

Sid  told  her  the  truth.  Mrs.  Sparling  closed 
her  eyes  and  thought  a  while.  When  she  opened 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  115 

them   they   saw  that   she   felt  more   friendly. 

"Listen!"  she  whispered.  "You  wanted  to  do 
me  a  friendly  act.  I'm  going  to  trust  you  still 
more.  There's  nobody  knows  I'm  here,  nobody. 
And  nobody  must  know!  Nobody  at  all.  I'm 
all  right  here.  You  won't  tell  a  soul,  will  you?" 

Sid  grinned.  "You're  right  that  nobody  knows 
you're  here.  And  we  won't  tell,  Mrs.  Sparling. 
But — are  you  sure  the  men  up  at  Old  Woman's 
Springs  don't  know?" 

"No!"  she  returned.  "This  is  seven  miles 
from  there,  and  nobody  has  been  this  way  since 
I  came.  Did  you  leave  that  card  in  the  mirror 
where  you  found  it?" 

"We  did,  ma'am." 

"Then  go  back  and  keep  my  secret,  boys." 
Mrs.  Sparling  smiled  weakly  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

Back  in  the  car  both  scouts  looked  at  each 
other.  Silently  they  agreed  to  leave  without 
further  parley. 

At  sundown,  as  they  climbed  the  rocky  road 
to  the  Victorville  bridge,  Sid  murmured,  "I 


116  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

guess  people  Mrs.  Sparling  don't  like  are  look- 
ing for  her." 

Angel  Child  nodded.  "Did  you  see  the  table 
in  that  house  where  the  fig  tree  is?  It  was  set 
for  three" 

Sid  nodded.  "And  there  were  no  fresh  tracks 
in  the  sand  anywhere,  nor  any  place  where  any 
one  could  be,"  he  remarked.  "It's  a  mystery, 
Angel!" 

The  scouts  kept  their  own  counsel.  But  the 
morning  before  Christmas  Sid  went  over  and 
visited  Child.  The  two  boys  were  fully  agreed 
on  their  plan  and  went  to  Mr.  Moulton  with  a 
request  for  the  car. 

"Good  for  you!"  said  Sid's  uncle.  "You  go 
ahead  into  Victorville  and  get  the  supplies  and 
save  me  the  trip.  It's  going  to  be  a  cold  day  to- 
morrow, and  a  snowy  Christmas,  unless  I'm  mis- 
taken." 

In  Victorville  the  scouts  went  over  their 
scheme.  It  began  to  look  dubious.  They  decided 
at  last  it  was  not  feasible.  They  would  postpone 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  117 

their  trip  to  the  house  with  the  fig  tree  till  later. 
But  at  that  moment  destiny  stepped  in.  Miss 
Messick,  postmistress,  called  Sid. 

"You  boys  travel  around  the  country  a  good 
deal,"  she  said.  "Some  men  here  want  to  know 
where  Mrs.  Sparling  lives." 

Sid  was  saved  from  embarrassment  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  man  who  briefly  introduced  him- 
self, after  a  glance  at  the  scouts'  uniform,  as  a 
deputy  sheriff  from  San  Bernardino.  Before  he 
could  speak  further  two  other  men  joined  him. 

Sid  and  Angel  Child  quietly  scrutinized  the 
men.  The  deputy  who  had  first  spoken  to  them 
was  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  tanned  face  and 
clear  blue  eyes.  The  second  man,  evidently  un- 
used to  roughing  it,  appeared  ill  at  ease  and 
anxious;  the  third  was  an  elderly  man  whom 
both  scouts  set  down  as  a  prospector.  They  soon 
learned  that  he  was  acting  as  guide. 

The  deputy  soon  put  his  questions.  Sid,  after 
a  single  glance  of  understanding  with  his  brother 
scout,  listened. 


118  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"Have  you  heard  of  a  young  woman  who  calls 
herself  Mrs.  Sparling?" 

The  boys  nodded. 

"When  did  you  last  see  her?" 

"Here  in  Victorville?"  Angel  asked  inno- 
cently. 

"Yes,"  put  in  the  second  man  eagerly. 

"About  two  months  ago,  sir," 

The  prospector  sighed  resignedly.  "Nobody's 
seen  or  heard  of  her,  I  tell  ye!"  he  croaked. 

The  deputy  waved  his  hand.  "Where  did  the 
woman  live?"  he  asked  Sid  directly. 

As  briefly  as  possible  Sid  explained  the  road 
to  the  cabin  on  the  Black  Hawk  road. 

"That's  the  place  for  us,"  the  second  man  put 
in.  "And  the  sooner  the  better!" 

Ten  minutes  later  Sid  Moulton  had  hailed 
the  local  constable,  Ed  Dolch,  and  got  from  him 
the  story  of  the  three  men. 

"Wild-goose  chase,"  the  constable  remarked. 
"And  I  got  better  business  on  Christmas  Eve 
than  chasing  up  some  poor  woman  whose  man 
got  in  bad  with  the  police." 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  119 

Sid  grinned.  "They  think  her  husband  is  with 
her?" 

Dolch  smiled.  "The  deputy  is  an  old-timer 
and  doesn't  like  his  job.  But  that  other  young 
fellow  is  a  detective  from  the  city  and  he  wants 
the  worst  way  to  lay  hands  on  Mrs.  Sparling's 
husband.  He  goes  under  a  dozen  names,  but  he 
was  sent  to  Folsom  six  months  ago  for  highway 
robbery  and  a  wreek  ago  he  escaped,  with  still 
two  months  to  serve,  for  he  had  conducted  him- 
self well  and  would  have  been  up  for  probation 
in  sixty  days.  Anyway,  out  he  climbs  of  Folsom 
and  disappears.  Then  three  days  ago  there's  a 
robbery  committed  in  Los  Angeles  on  a  bank 
and  they  think  this  Ogilbie,  or  Sparling,  as  he 
calls  himself,  had  a  hand  in  it." 

"They  aren't  sure?"  Angel  Child  asked. 

"No!"  Dolch  replied  disgustedly.  "He's  es- 
caped from  the  pen  and  they  just  suspect  him. 
That  city  detective  wants  to  nab  him  just  on 
general  principles  and  he  insists  that  the  first 
place  Sparling  would  make  for  would  be  his 
wife's  house." 


120  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Sid's  eyes  darkened.  "I  see.  They  think  the 
man  would  try  to  spend  Christmas  with  his  wife, 
and  so  they're  going  to  spend  Christmas  Eve 
getting  him?" 

The  constable  cocked  a  sagacious  eye  on  the 
cloudy  heights  of  the  San  Bernardinos.  "That's 
the  way  they  reckon.  They  better  hurry,  I  say. 
By  morning  there'll  be  a  foot  of  snow  on  the 
Mojave  and  they'll  have  a  sweet  Christmas  out 
there  where  there  isn't  even  a  tree." 

"And  you're  not  going  with  them?" 

"Who?  Me?"  the  peace  officer  asked  with  a 
great  show  of  indignation.  "Not  I.  Let  old 
Whitey  Burns  guide  'em.  Unless  I  miss  my 
guess  Whitey's  no  keener  than  the  deputy  is. 
That  city  detective  will  wish  he  was  home 
before  he's  through." 

"Who  is  the  deputy  from  Berdoo?"  Angel 
asked. 

Dolch  stared.  "You  don't  know  him?  That's 
old  Doc  Harlow.  He  used  to  be  the  wickedest 
son  of  a  gun  in  San  Diego  County.  Was  a 
doctor  in  the  old  days  and  then  turned  up  as  the 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  121 

only  wise  deputy  for  the  desert.  He  trails  'em 
and  he  gets  'em,  does  old  Doc.  He  never  yet 
went  after  a  man  that  he  didn't  either  bring  him 
in — or  his  guns  and  his  boots,  just  to  show  he 
had  met  up  with  him.  But  he's  not  anxious 
to  go  after  Sparling.  Ye  can  see  that  with  half 
an  eye." 

By  themselves  the  scouts  talked  this  over. 

"There  is  one  thing  sure,"  Sid  said  earnestly. 
"That  is,  we'll  be  to  blame  if  they  arrest  Mrs. 
Sparling's  husband." 

"We  only  told  them  where  she  used  to  live," 
Angel  objected.  "They  won't  understand  that 
note  in  the  mirror — nor  even  see  it." 

"They'll  see  our  car  tracks  right  at  the  house, 
and  the  broken  back  door  and  our  foot  tracks 
outside.  I'll  bet  anything  it  won't  take  that  old 
Doc  Harlow  ten  minutes  to  settle  in  his  mind 
that  if  he  follows  our  car  tracks  he'll  arrive. 
You  know  Uncle  Joe  has  non-skids  on  the  car 
and  they've  made  as  good  a  track  as  anybody 
needs  right  to  the  house  beyond  Old  Woman's 
Springs." 


122  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"That's  right,"  the  other  confessed.  "But  they 
say  Sparling  held  up  a  bank.  Anyway,  he  broke 
out  of  the  pen." 

"Maybe  he  did,"  Sid  retorted.  "But  Mrs. 
Sparling  hasn't  committed  any  crime,  has  she? 
And  when  we  tried  to  do  her  a  favor,  we  only 
fixed  it  so  she'll  have  a  sheriff  and  a  detective 
coming  in  Christmas  Eve." 

"Unless  we  warn  her,"  Angel  murmured. 

"We  can  do  that  and  be  back  home  to-night," 
Sid  replied  dubiously. 

"And  the  sheriff  will  just  follow  us,"  Angel 
retorted. 

They  debated  this  some  time  and  ended  by 
writing  a  message  which  a  neighbor  promised 
to  deliver  to  Mr.  Moulton  that  afternoon.  Then 
they  quietly  left  town  by  the  Daggett  road. 
Where  it  turned  off  across  the  bridge  at  the  foot 
of  the  grade  a  second  car  containing  the  deputy, 
the  detective,  and  the  prospector  hailed  them. 

"So  you're  going  the  Daggett  road  by  Stod- 
dard's  Well?"  Doc  Harlow  called  out.  "All 
right.  If  you  catch  sight  of  that  Mrs.  Sparling, 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  123 

leave  word  at  the  telegraph  station  somewhere 
for  me." 

Sid  speeded  up  down  the  river  and  then 
thoughtfully  turned  north  towards  Stoddard's 
Well. 

"Just  one  o'clock,  Sid,"  Angel  said. 

Sid  nodded.  "We'll  make  time  to  the  Well, 
then  turn  off  on  the  road  that  goes  around  by 
Ord  Mountain  and  so  back  to  Box  S.,  If  we 
hurry  we'll  get  there  about  half  an  hour  after 
the  sheriff  does.  We  can  sneak  along  the  upper 
road  from  Lucerne  and  make  Mrs.  Sparling's 
with  an  hour  to  spare." 

"And  what  then?" 

"Time  enough  then,"  Sid  grunted,  and  de- 
voted himself  to  his  driving. 

The  car  did  nobly  in  spite  of  the  cold  wind 
that  chilled  the  engine,  and  at  half  past  two  the 
boys  came  in  sight  of  the  little  settlement  at 
Lucerne.  They  slithered  down  a  side  trail  and 
were  quickly  lost  in  the  sage. 

"Nobody  recognized  us,"  Angel  said. 

"They  won't  from  now  on,"  Sid  returned,  and 


124  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

stopped.  They  put  the  top  down  and  wrapped 
themselves  as  warmly  as  possible  in  a  rug  and 
went  on. 

"With  the  top  down  you  can't  see  a  car  a 
mile,"  Sid  remarked. 

They  passed  the  Black  Hawk  road  and  were 
rewarded  by  catching  a  glimpse  of  an  automo- 
bile's top  shining  above  the  brush  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  cabin  Mrs.  Sparling  had  formerly 
inhabited. 

"They're  just  tooling  up  to  the  house,"  Sid 
laughed.  "They'll  spend  an  hour  talking  it 


over." 


Five  miles  further  on  both  boys  wrapped  the 
tell  tale  tires  on  the  rear  wheels  with  gunnysack- 
ing  and  then  continued.  At  Cottonwood  Wells 
they  drove  up  around  the  springs  and  then  down 
to  the  Old  Woman's  Well  road  again.  When 
they  reached  the  road  stretching  down  into  the 
lower  valley  and  towards  their  destination,  Sid 
stopped  again  and  they  tied  two  short  pieces  of 
yucca  palm  behind  the  car  so  as  to  drag  in  the 
rut  and  completely  obscure  all  tell  tale  marks. 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  125 

They  drove  the  car  boldly  through  the  sand  for 
a  hundred  yards  and  so  into  the  other  road. 

"It  certainly  doesn't  look  as  if  a  car  had  made 
that  track,"  Angel  acknowledged. 

"No,"  Sid  replied.  "But  it's  going  to  get  dark 
very  soon.  Mrs.  Sparling  might  light  a  light. 
We  must  get  there  first." 

But  here  hard  luck  befell  the  scouts.  A  tire 
went  soft  and  it  took  twenty  minutes  to  fix 

it.   Within  half  a  mile  the  same  tire  gave  way 

. 
again. 

"Cholla  got  into  it,"  Sid  grumbled.  "We 
could  patch  that  tube  a  million  times  and  every 
time  that  little  needle  of  cholla  that's  run 
through  the  casing  would  let  the  air  out.  Got  to 
put  on  the  spare." 

They  completed  the  job  as  hurriedly  as  pos- 
sible and  found  themselves  overtaken  by  dark- 
ness. Both  scouts  peered  anxiously  into  the  dusk 
towards  Mrs.  Sparling's  house.  No  light  ap- 
peared. Sid  drove  on  in  the  darkness  carefully. 
But  a  few  chill  flakes  of  snow  roused  him  to  the 
fact  that  if  he  was  going  to  do  anything  he  must 
hasten. 


126  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"They'll  see  our  tracks  in  the  road  where  we 
fixed  the  tire,"  Angel  remarked.  He  pointed 
back  to  a  light  flashing  several  miles  behind 
them. 

"They'll  go  on  to  Old  Woman's  Springs,"  Sid 
said  confidently.  "They'll  spend  another  hour  at 
that  I  wish  we  dared  use  the  lights  of  the  car." 

They  went  slowly  on  and  ended  in  a  wash 
where  the  car  stuck.  Angel  got  out  to  explore 
and  they  were  soon  back  in  the  road.  But  Sid 
noticed  his  fellow  scout  was  curiously  tense. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded. 

"There's  fresh  tracks  of  a  man  in  the  road," 
Angel  returned. 

"Sure?" 

"Get  out  and  see  for  yourself!" 

Sid  stopped  and  did  so.  Unmistakably  there 
had  been  a  man  by  that  way  within  a  very  few 
hours. 

"He  was  hurrying,  too/'  Sid  remarked. 

Angel  thought  this  over.  "I  know!"  he  said 
presently.  "He  got  up  to  Bear  Valley  from  the 
other  side,  came  down  from  Pine  Knot  to  Box  S 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  127 

and  then  this  way.  Likely  he  drove  a  car 
down,  or  came  in  the  stage.  Then  he  cut  across 
the  desert  and  struck  this  road.  Whoever  he  is, 
he's  no  stranger  to  this  region." 

Half  an  hour  later  Angel  reported  that  no 
lights  were  longer  visible  behind  them.  Sid 
made  what  speed  he  could  in  the  darkness,  which 
was  now  almost  pitchy,  owing  to  the  low-hang- 
ing clouds  and  the  occasional  flurries  of  snow. 

"Got  to  light  the  lights,  Angel,"  he  said  in 
desperation,  as  the  car  dragged  itself  out  of  a 
hillock  of  loose  sand.  He  snapped  them  on. 
Both  scouts  stared  in  front  of  them.  Directly  in 
the  path  of  the  twin  beams  stood  a  man  facing 
them,  with  one  arm  outpointed  and  a  revolver 
gleaming  in  it. 

"Hands  up!"  he  cried  huskily. 

The  boys  promptly  obeyed.  The  stranger 
came  slowly  up  to  the  car  and  peered  in. 

"Boys!"  he  gasped,  in  relief.  Then  his  eye 
caught  the  uniforms.  "Boy  scouts!" 

Sid  nodded.  "Are  you  Mr.  Sparling?" 

"What  of  it?"  came  the  harsh  query. 


128  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"Have  you  seen  your  wife?"  Angel  asked,  try- 
ing to  hold  his  hands  higher. 

The  man's  white  face  grew  whiter.  "Not  yet." 

"She's  sick."  Sid  stammered.  "We  were  out 
here  a  few  days  ago.  She  told  us  never  to  tell 
any  one  where  she  was." 

"Did  you?11 

Sid  let  his  arms  down.  "They  ache  too  much," 
he  remarked.  Angel  followed  suit  and  the  man 
nodded. 

Then  the  scouts  told  him  precisely  what  had 
happened.  The  young  man's  haggard  face 
lightened. 

"You  came  to  warn  me?" 

"To  warn  her — it's  Christmas  Eve." 

Sparling  opened  the  door  and  climbed  in.  "I 
reckon  you'll  do  me  the  favor  to  drive  me  the 
next  two  miles,"  he  said.  "I'm  pretty  nearly 
tu6kered  out.  You  gave  me  an  awful  scare.  I 
knew  they'd  be  after  me." 

Sid  let  in  the  clutch  and  they  went  on  quickly. 

"It's  still  two  miles,"  Angel  remarked. 

"More  than  that,"  Sparling  remarked.     "I 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  129 

was  a  Koy  out  here.  Years  ago.  I  was  going  to 
bring  my  wife  out  here  and  raise  horses  when 
the  police  got  me — for  nothing." 

"But  you  went  to  prison!" 

Sparling  nodded.  "I  wasn't  guilty  of  that'9 

"They  say  you  held  up  a  bank  in  Los  An- 
geles," Angel  went  on. 

l'I  did  not!  The  only  crime  I  ever  committed 
was  something  they  never  knew  about.  But  I 
went  with  the  wrong  crowd  before  I  was  mar- 
ried and  in  spite  of  everything  they  arrested  me 
the  week  after  I  was  married  and  railroaded 


me." 


Sid  put  on  the  brake  suddenly  and  the  car 
stopped.  From  either  side  revolvers  covered 
them. 

"You  boys  were  pretty  smooth."  Doc  Harlow 
remarked.  "But  it  didn't  work." 

The  detective  slipped  handcuffs  over  Spar- 
ling's wrists  and  thrust  the  captured  revolver 
into  his  own  pocket.  "You'll  come  pretty  near 
to  swinging  for  that  last  job,  Ogilbie,"  he  jeered. 
"Now  for  Berdoo." 


130  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

But  the  deputy  sheriff  had  notions  of  his  own. 
"It's  snowing  right  here,"  he  said  quietly.  "That 
means  it's  deep  on  Cajon  and  we'd  probably  be 
all  night  getting  to  Victorville.  We're  going  on 
to  see  Mrs.  Sparling." 

The  prisoner  gulped.  "I  haven't  seen  her 
since  you  sent  me  up  six  months  ago,"  he  said 
in  a  whisper.  "Don't  let  Her  see  me  this  way, 
gentlemen  1" 

"This  way  is  good  enough  for  a  crook  1"  said 
the  detective. 

Doc  Harlow  displaced  Sid  at  the  wheel  and 
started  to  drive  on.  "I  reckon  we  can  fix  it  up 
for  to-night,  Sparling,"  he  remarked  calmly. 
"You  can't  get  away  from  us  out  here.  You 
know  me." 

"You  knew  my  dad,"  the  prisoner  remarked. 

"I  did.  And  I've  seen  that  wife  of  yours  a 
couple  of  times."  He  looked  over  at  the  detec- 
tive. "We've  got  your  man,  Beasley.  To-night  is 
Christmas  Eve  and  I  reckon  we  can  spare  his 
lady  too  hard  a  time." 

The  prospector  appeared  by  the  roadside  and 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  131 

Harlow  stopped  to  say,  "Just  drive  on  after  us, 
Whitey.  We're  going  on  to  the  ranch." 

The  old  man  nodded.  "Fig  tree  ranch,  Doc?" 

"The  same." 

Ten  minutes  later  Sid  saw  the  long,  low  cabin 
appear  like  a  shadow  out  of  the  starless  night. 
The  beam  of  the  car's  lights  swept  across  it  and 
were  reflected  glimmeringly  from  the  window- 
panes.  The  deputy  sheriff  stopped  the  motor 
and  climbed  out. 

"Unlock  those  cuffs,  Beasley,"  he  ordered. 

Grumblingly  the  detective  obeyed.  Sparling 
got  out  and  stood  helplessly  staring  at  the  house. 

"Go  on — you  first,  young  man,"  the  deputy 
said  gruffly. 

The  scouts  watched  him  go  shambling  with 
weariness  to  the  door.  They  saw  him  feel  for  the 
latch  and  slowly  open  it.  Then  they  saw  the 
man  halt  in  the  doorway  and  heard  his  low-toned 
call:  "Eugenia!  Eugenia!" 

The  answer  came  in  a  moan.  Sparling  leaped 
at  that  sound  and  vanished. 

"He'll    get    away!"    whispered    Beasley,    In 


132  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

alarm.  But  the  deputy  turned  on  him  with  a 
snarl. 

"You  keep  back''  he  commanded.  He 
touched  Sid  on  the  shoulder.  "Slip  in  and  see 
what's  the  matter  with  the  lady,  son." 

The  scout  obeyed.  He  found  himself  in  the 
room,  cold,  fireless,  lampless.  And  from  some 
invisible  corner  came  the  sound  of  sobs,  of  a 
woman  sobbing  and  a  man  murmuring  gently. 
Then  Sparling  suddenly  called  out,  in  a  sharp 
voice,  "Oh,  Doctor!" 

"That,"  said  the  deputy  calmly,  "is  what  I  sus- 
pected." He  turned  to  the  detective.  "Get 
wood  and  water  from  the  well." 

The  call  came  again:  "Doctor!" 

"That,"  Harlow  replied  cheerfully,  "used  to 
be  my  business.  I  am  still  quite  good  at  it."  He 
brushed  past  Sid  and  went  into  the  darkness  of 
the  other  room. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  stove  was  roaring,, 
a  kettle  was  on,  and  Sid  and  Angel  Child  were 
busily  engaged  in  preparing  supper.  Neither 
Sparling  nor  Doc  Harlow  came  out  to  enjoy  it. 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  133 

But  Beasley  and  the  prospector  made  a  hearty 
meal  with  the  boys.  Then  Sid  and  Angel  rolled 
themselves  in  blankets,  after  draining  the  cars' 
radiators  and  putting  the  curtains  up,  and  went 
to  sleep.  They  felt  that  after  all  their  errand 
had  not  resulted  in  evil. 

They  were  awakened  by  Doc  Harlow  shak- 
ing them  gently.  Both  roused  smartly  and  saw 
a  smile  on  his  face. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  he  said  cheerfully.  "And 
come  in  and  see  the  stranger!" 

The  scouts  bashfully  went  into  the  little  bed- 
room. Mrs.  Sparling  lay  smiling  feebly  at  her 
husband.  Doc  Harlow  bustled  over  to  her  and 
laid  back  the  blanket  from  her  shoulder. 

"Young  Mr.  Sparling!"  he  announced.  "He 
wishes  you  all  a  Merry  Christmas!" 

"Merry  Christmas!"  Sid  and  Angel  called 
out. 

Later  they  stared  at  the  starry  sky,  clearing 
before  a  brisk  wind.  The  desert  lay  lightly 
feathered  with  snow,  trackless,  unsoiled.  Doc 
Harlow  joined  them. 


134  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"A  fine  morning  for  so  early,"  he  affirmed. 
"Beasley  and  I  wanted  you  boys  to  know  that  it 
was  all  a  mistake.  The  man  Ogilbie — whom  I 
should  be  glad  to  see  hang — is  not  Mrs.  Spar- 
ling's husband.  The  detective  and  I  have  figured 
out  that  we  were  entirely  wrong.  Isn't  that  so, 
Beasley?" 

The  detective  grinned.  "Ab-so-lu-tely!  Mr. 
Sparling  is  not  our  man  at  all.  In  fact,  I  think 
we  owe  him  an  apology." 

"Land  save  us!"  boomed  the  deputy,  "you  re- 
mind me!  This  is  Christmas!  And  not  a  thing 
in  the  house  for  dinner!  Nor  to  put  on  the 
tree!" 

Out  of  the  night  Whitey  appeared,  stroking 
his  thin  beard. 

"I  was  thinkin'  that  myself,  Doc,"  he  re- 
marked. "So  I  took  a  pasear  up  to  Old  Woman's 
Springs,  where  the  boys  was  havin'  a  kind  of 
mild  celebration.  They  sent  down  a  couple  o' 
ponies  packed  with  didoes." 

"Bring  them  in!"  the  deputy  ordered. 

Sid  and  Angel  stared  at  the  many  articles  that 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  135 

were  extracted  from  the  pack  saddles  and  placed 
around  the  room.  SparKng  himself  left  the 
inner  room  and  gazed  dumbly. 

"Your  young  lady  will  be  as  right  as  rain  in  a 
day,"  Harlow  informed  him,  cocking  his  head 
one  side  the  better  to  enjoy  the  arrangement  of 
the  gifts.  "Bright  and  early  in  the  day  these 
young  scouts  will  take  Beasley  to  Victorville  and 
Beasley  will  arrange  to  send  out  a  nurse  and  the 
needed  grub  and  medicines." 

"And  me?"  whispered  Sparling. 

"Land  save  us!"  said  the  deputy  in  apparent 
amazement.  "You  aren't  holding  that  trick  we 
played  on  you  against  us?  Funny,  knowing  your 
father  as  well  as  I  did,  that  I  ever  could  connect 
you  with  Ogilbie." 

"A  mistake,"  Beasley  said  firmly. 

The  young  man  trembled  a  little.  "Will  I 
have  to  go  back  and  serve  my  time?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"The  only  time  you'll  have  to  serve  that  we 
know  of,"  the  deputy  remarked  carelessly,  "is 
walking  the  floor  o'  nights  with  that  youngster. 


136  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

And  next  Christmas  you  be  home  all  day  the  day 
before,  and  have  a  tree  fixed  up  right,  for  I'm 
going  to  be  here  and  so's  Beasley  and  so's  old 
Whitey  Burns  to  see  how  this  young  Christmas 
baby  is  growing.  And  see  that  it's  a  big  tree, 
for  we're  going  to  come  in  cars  loaded  with 
stuff." 

A  faint  voice  from  the  bedroom  stilled  them. 
Sparling  responded  swiftly.  He  came  out  and 
beckoned  the  scouts.  They  followed  him  and 
came  to  the  bedside. 

"You  boys  brought  me  this  happiness,"  she 
murmured  smiling  at  them  wonderfully. 
"Billie  would  have  had  a  battle  with  the  men 
otherwise — and  I'd  have  died  here  to-night." 

"I'm  glad,  ma'am,"  the  boys  answered  simply. 
But  as  they  tip-toed  out  a  sleepy  voice  recalled 
them. 

"Oh,  boys!  Did  you  wonder  why  I  set  the 
table  always  for  three?" 

"To  let  your  husband  know  there  would  be 
three  of  you,"  Sid  answered  bashfully. 

Mrs.  Sparling  smiled  drowsily.    'That  was 


The  Magi  of  the  Mojave  137 

what  I  thought.  It  was  my  secret  way  of  telling 
Billie-boy  about  us." 

In  the  other  room  Sid  saw  the  three  men 
seated  about  the  fire,  their  hands  filled  with  va- 
rious presents,  hastily  prepared  for  the  occasion. 
And  in  their  serene  and  pleasant  faces  he  per- 
ceived that  Christmas  is  a  living  season,  which 
wise  men  always  observe. 

"I  tell  you,  Beasley,"  the  deputy  was  saying 
in  a  mild  tone,  "you  and  I  couldn't  do  better 
than  invest  a  little  money  with  Sparling.  I  c'n 
see  he'll  do  well." 

"I  think  you're  more  than  right/'  the  detective 
replied.  "I'll  do  it." 

Whitey  Burns  polished  a  heavy  bit  of  mineral 
on  his  palm.  "That  thar's  a  nugget  I  picked  up 
not  thirty  mile  from  here  twelve  year  ago,"  he 
remarked.  "It's  wuth  sixty  dollars  and  if  I  c'n 
find  that  ledge  again  I'll  sure  stake  that  kid  in 
thar  to  half  of  it." 

Doc  Harlow  beamed  on  the  scouts.  "And  I 
reckon  we  can  trust  these  boys  to  keep  us  right 
up  to  date  on  how  the  youngster  grows  and 


138  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

learns  his  letters,"  he  said.  "In  fact,  the  more  I 
think  of  it,  the  more  inclined  I  am  to  put  the 
kid  in  their  charge." 

Sparling  appeared,  tip-toeing  from  the  sleep- 
ing room.  He  shook  hands  with  both  boys. 

"That  goes  with  me,"  he  said  simply. 

The  first  faint  light  of  the  dawn  showed  in  the 
window.  The  prospector  pointed  to  the  sky. 

"Thar's  the  morning  star,"  he  mumbled. 
"Right  over  the  house." 

"As  it  was  nineteen  hundred  and  twenty  years 
ago,"  said  the  deputy. 


TREASURE  IN  THE  AIR 

I'M  going  into  my  chalk  mine  back  of  Helen's 
Station,"  the  old  packer  told  Sid  when 
he  met  him  at  the  ford  across  the  Mojave. 

"I  didn't  know  they  mined  chalk,"  Sid 
remarked. 

"They  get  everything  mostly  out  of  mines, 
son,"  the  other  answered.  "Gold,  silver,  plati- 
num, diamonds,  coal,  tungsten,  vanadium,  gas, 
oil,  and  paint.  My  mine  is  chalk,  which  goes 
into  paint." 

The  two  of  them  discussed  the  uses  of  white 
chalk  that  lies  here  and  there  in  remote  fastnesses 
of  the  desert  and  the  scout  learned  that  the 
material  is  quarried  out,  purified,  sacked,  and 
shipped  to  paint  factories  for  "filler."  The  old 
man  admitted  that  he  worked  his  mine  only  a 

139 


140  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

few  weeks  in  each  year  and  gained  a  bare  live- 
lihood. "Mostly  I  prospect  for  metals,"  he 
went  on. 

Before  he  collected  his  burros  and  adjusted 
their  packs  the  old  fellow  dropped  a  few  words 
of  gossip. 

"Back  there  about  twenty-eight  miles" — he 
jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  to  the  south- 
west— "I  found  the  widow  of  an  old  side-part- 
ner of  mine.  We  used  to  prospect  together.  He 
took  up  a  homestead  back  there  in  Four  North 
and  Eight  West.  The  old  lady  is  having  a  hard 
time.  Mrs.  Tomson,  her  name  is.  Ben  Tomson 
got  blown  up  last  year,  or  killed  some  way.  He 
was  after  a  mine,  you  see." 

"Was  he  using  dynamite?"  Sid  asked. 

The  packer  shook  his  tousled  head.  "Not  he. 
He  didn't  have  a  stick  with  him.  Nobody  knows 
what  happened — something  just  naturally  blew 
him  up  while  he  was  coming  back  from  his 
claim.  They  found  him.  Ben  was  a  good  man." 

"Did  he  find  a  mine?"  the  scout  went  on. 

"He  did.     But  what  kind  of  a  mine  it  was 


Treasure  in  the  Air  141 

nobody  knows  to  this  day.  He'd  discovered  it  the 
month  before  and  come  home  to  the  ranch  and 
told  his  wife  he'd  found  it.  Then  he  went  off  to 
work  it  and  they  found  his  dead  body  ten  days 
later  on  the  trail  back  home.  That's  what  makes 
it  hard  for  Mrs.  Tomson:  she  knows  Ben  found 
what  he'd  been  prospecting  for  all  these  years 
and  then  got  killed  some  way  before  he  could 
tell  her  where  it  was." 

The  old  man  prepared  to  move  on.  "If  you're 
ever  over  in  Town  Four  North,  Eight  West,  you 
might  drop  in  on  the  old  lady  and  cheer  her 
up."  He  stared  at  the  russet  hills  ahead  of  him, 
dun  and  bare  and  desolate.  "She's  pretty  lone- 
some since  Ben's  gone.  And  I  haven't  made  my 
stake  yet  and  she's  poor."  He  departed,  his  bur- 
ros trotting  demurely  up  the  sandy  slope  from 
the  river. 

For  some  reason  this  bit  of  desert  history 
stuck  in  Sid's  mind  and  a  few  days  later  when 
Angel  Child  came  over,  the  two  boys  conferred 
about  it. 

"Seems  that  this  Ben  Tomson  discovered  a 


142  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

mine  and  then  got  mysteriously  killed  before  he 
could  let  his  wife  know  where  it  was,"  Sid  con- 
cluded. 

"I  know  where  Town  Four  North  and  Eight 
West  is,"  Angel  put  in.  "I  bet  I  know  the  old 
woman,  too.  I  was  up  there  hunting  last  year 
and  stopped  overnight  at  a  shack  built  among  the 
junipers.  If  that's  Mrs.  Tomson  she's  poorer 
than  a  desert  rat.  Has  to  haul  water  six  miles." 

"And  she  might  be  rich,"  Sid  remarked. 

They  went  carefully  over  the  scanty  informa- 
tion the  packer  had  let  fall.  Sid  repeated  what 
the  old  man  had  said  about  the  different  kinds 
of  mines.  "Tomson's  might  have  been  almost 
any  kind,"  he  said. 

"Old  prospectors  aren't  easily  fooled,"  Angel 
suggested.  "The  reason  he  didn't  say  anything 
about  where  it  was  shows  he  thought  it  was 
worth  a  lot.  Funny  he'd  get  killed." 

"Blown  up,"  Sid  interposed. 

Angel  shook  his  head.  "How  could  he?  You 
say  he  was  found  on  the  trail  out,  How  do  men 
get  blown  up  walking  along  a  trail?  Especially 


Treasure  in  the  Air  143 

an  old-timer  who  didn't  have  any  dynamite 
along?" 

"Anyway,  I  kind  of  promised  the  old  fellow 
we'd  have  a  look-see  at  Mrs.  Tomson  some  day," 
Sid  answered.  "Maybe  she'd  tell  us  more." 

Sid's  uncle  heard  in  time  of  the  boys'  desire  to 
visit  the  widow  of  the  old  miner.  To  their  sur- 
prise he  seemed  both  interested  and  helpful. 

"I  knew  Ben,"  he  told  the  scouts.  "He  was  an 
educated  man  and  an  excellent  miner.  The  last 
time  I  saw  him  he  told  me  he  thought  he  had 
made  his  stake  at  last.  He  didn't  tell  me  what 
or  where  it  was,  but  he  was  tremendously  ex- 
cited just  the  same.  And  so  far  as  I  could  hear 
his  death  was  the  queerest  thing  that  has  hap- 
pened in  this  desert  in  my  time." 

"How  was  it  queer,  Uncle  Joe?"  Sid  de- 
manded. 

His  uncle  shook  his  head.  "Simply  queer. 
His  body  was  found  on  a  trail  back  of  Victor- 
ville.  He  had  evidently  been  blown  up  in  some 
kind  of  an  explosion.  His  clothes  were  burned 
and  his  face  scorched.  Besides  that  his  burro  was 


144  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

found  a  hundred  feet  away  and  it  had  been 
killed  also,  apparently  by  this  same  explosion." 

"Instantly  killed?"  Angel  inquired. 

Mr.  Moulton's  eyes  grew  sharp.  "Exactly  the 
question  that  I've  asked  myself  a  good  many 
times,"  he  answered.  "Personally,  I  believe  the 
explosion  took  place  in  another  spot  and  that  Ben 
tried  to  get  himself  and  his  burro  down  to  civi- 
lization and  they  died  on  the  way.  Anyway, 
there  was  absolutely  no  sign  of  any  explosion 
where  they  were  found." 

As  this  only  whetted  their  curiosity,  the  scouts 
asked  permission  to  cross  the  valley  and  call  on 
Mrs.  Tomson.  Mr.  Moulton  gave  them  his 
blessing  and  Mrs.  Moulton  packed  them  food 
for  a  week. 

"If  Mrs.  Tomson  is  as  poor  as  I  think  she  is," 
Sid's  Aunt  Mary  remarked,  "you  had  better  be 
ready  to  provide  your  own  grub.  She  even  has 
to  haul  the  drinking  water  several  miles." 

It  was  a  fine  day  early  in  January  when  the 
two  scouts  set  out.  They  had  decided  not  to  take 
the  long-about  road,  but  to  cut  directly  across 


Treasure  in  the  Air  145 

country,  using  the  lofty,  snow-clad  peak  of  Old 
Baldy  as  their  landmark.  Both  had  searched 
their  maps  and  fixed  the  location  of  Township 
Four  North  and  Eight  West  in  their  minds. 
They  had  calculated  its  distance,  in  a  straight 
line,  as  thirty-five  miles — all  through  the  tree- 
less, waterless  desert. 

Mr.  Moulton  reassured  himself  as  to  their 
preparations.  He  examined  their  compasses, 
loaned  Sid  a  pair  of  good  binoculars,  saw  to  their 
having  each  a  proper  emergency  dressing  for 
bites  and  wounds,  and  warned  them  against  the 
possibility  of  cold,  wintry  storms.  Both  prom- 
ised that  in  the  case  of  bad  weather  they  would 
strike  for  the  nearest  habitation  and  remain  there 
till  travel  became  safe. 

The  first  day  they  made  eighteen  miles  and 
camped  under  a  yucca  palm. 

"Too  cold  for  me!"  Angel  said,  shivering  next 
morning  while  Sid  pulled  up  greasewood  roots 
for  the  fire.  "One  blanket  apiece  is  nothing  at 
all  in  this  kind  of  air." 

Sid  agreed.    "We'll  make  Mrs.  Tomson's  by 


146  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

to-night  anyway.  Now  for  the  bacon  and  coffee." 

With  this  they  ate  some  bread  and  dripping 
and  were  soon  ready  for  the  day.  The  sky  was 
slightly  overcast  and  the  crests  of  the  San  Ber- 
nardinos  were  veiled  with  cloud.  A  bitter  wind 
blew  from  the  westward  and  both  scouts  were 
only  too  glad  to  hasten  along  without  resting. 

It  was  snowing  slightly  when  they  came  to  the 
place  where  Mrs.  Tomson's  shanty  should  ap- 
pear in  sight.  So  far  as  they  could  see  there  was 
no  house  to  be  seen.  They  had  crossed  no  trav- 
eled road. 

"We're  lost!"  said  Angel,  flapping  his  arms 
and  blowing  great  clouds  of  steam  into  the  air. 

Sid  nodded.  "It  looks  that  way.  But  we're 
not  lost  more'n  a  mile.  It'll  be  dark  in  half  an 
hour.  If  we're  within  five  miles  we'll  see  lights 
— Mrs.  Tomson's  lights.'* 

"Maybe  she's  gone?" 

"We'll  see  some  kind  of  lights,"  Sid  replied 
cheerfully.  "And  when  we  do,  we'll  make  for 
them.  You  can't  see  a  thing  this  time  of  day. 
Everything's  simply  a  kind  of  gray," 


Treasure  in  the  Air  147 

It  was  quite  dark  before  both  scouts  gave  a 
yell  and  started  forward.  A  small  light  ap- 
peared quite  close.  They  made  the  interval  in 
five  minutes  and  came  stamping  and  blowing 
into  a  very  small  fenced  plot  of  ground  in  the 
middle  of  which  stood  a  two-room  shack  built 
of  rough  lumber.  A  moment  later  the  door  had 
opened  to  their  knock  and  an  old  lady  was  peer- 
ing at  them. 

"Mrs.  Tomson?"  Sid  asked,  taking  off  his  cap. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  then  exclaimed, 
"Why,  boys!  Whatever  are  you  doing  out  here 
this  kind  of  weather?  Come  right  in!" 

They  entered  and  found  themselves  in  a 
neatly  but  sparsely  furnished  room  which  com- 
bined sitting  room,  bedroom,  and  kitchen  in  one. 
On  the  stove  was,  evidently,  Mrs.  Tomson's  sup- 
per. Glancing  at  it,  Sid  was  glad  he  and  Angel 
had  brought  plenty  for  themselves. 

Mrs.  Tomson  seemed  relieved,  though  she  said 
little,  when  the  scouts  proclaimed  their  ability 
to  provide  their  own  meal.  She  welcomed  them, 
and  they  saw  that  she  was  glad  to  have  them  with 


148  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

her.  And  after  supper,  while  the  rising  wind 
shrieked  about  the  flimsy  cabin,  they  drew  her 
story  from  her. 

The  gist  of  it  was  that  Ben  Tomson  had 
worked  half  the  year  in  San  Bernardino  to  earn 
sufficient  money  to  support  himself  and  his  wife 
for  six  months  on  the  desert.  Part  of  this  time 
he  spent  in  working  at  improvements  on  the 
homestead;  part  he  devoted  to  prospecting. 

"He  always  found  enough  to  make  it  worth 
while,"  his  widow  said,  over  her  knitting.  "And 
at  last  he  thought  he'd  made  a  rich  strike.  I'll 
never  forget  how  excited  he  was  when  he  burst 
in  that  afternoon  eighteen  months  ago. 

"'Mother!'  he  cried,  'I've  found  a  fortune!' 
Those  were  his  words." 

The  scouts  nodded  politely.  Mrs.  Thomson 
allowed  her  knitting  to  drop  while  she  let  mem- 
ory of  that  blissful  moment  erase  the  dismal 
present.  She  took  up  the  thread  of  her  story 
with  a  sigh. 

"The  next  day  he  went  to  Berdoo" — Sid  rec- 
ognized the  local  abbreviation  of  San  Bernar- 
dino— "and  came  back  with  fresh  supplies.  He 


Treasure  in  the  Air  149 

told  me  he  was  going  in  to  locate  his  find  and 
make  certain  of  it.  He  left  at  daylight  one  morn- 
ing. I  knew  it  was  going  to  storm,  and  told  him 
so.  He  didn't  seem  to  care.  He  was  off  to  find 
his  fortune." 

"And  then,  Ma'am?"  Angel  inquired. 

"They  came  here  ten  days  later  and  told  me 
he  was  dead,"  Mrs.  Tomson  whispered.  "He'd 
been  blown  up  in  some  way,  he  and  his  pack 
burro.  I — I  always  thought  he  got  hurt  long 
before  and  was  trying  to  get  home  to  be  nursed. 
I'm  a  good  nurse.  He  always  said  so." 

Later  Sid  asked,  "And  you  never  found  out 
where  the  mine  was,  ma'am?" 

Mrs.  Tomson  shook  her  head.  "For  a  long 
time  I  didn't  think  about  it,"  she  murmured. 
"Then,  when  I  did  try  to  think  about  it,  I  found 
there  wasn't  any  way  of  finding  out  just  where 
he'd  been." 

"What  kind  of  a  mine  was  it?"  Angel  asked. 

The  widow  sighed.  "He  never  said.  He  was 
hunting  mostly  for  gold.  But  latterly  he  used  to 
talk  about  finding  silver  or  copper." 


ISO  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"Didn't  he  say  anything  about  this  place  he'd 
found?"  Sid  persisted. 

Mrs.  Tomson  knit  on.  "Maybe  I  misunder- 
stood him,"  she  remarked  slowly,  "we  were  so 
excited.  But  it  seems  to  me,  he  claimed  that 
there  was  something  in  the  air  that  affected 
him." 

"Something  in  the  air!"  Sid  repeated. 

Mrs.  Tomson  nodded.  "Sounds  funny,  doesn't 
it?  Maybe  he  meant  the  altitude  made  him 
dizzy— he  used  to  say  he  liked  high  places  be- 
cause they  made  him  feel  queer  and  good.  But 
then  again  I  don't  remember  that  he  referred  to 
altitudes — I  think  he  meant  something  mysteri- 
ous. All  the  more  so  because  his  death  was  so 
mysterious.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  man  and  a 
burro  being  just  blown  up  with  no  powder 
around?" 

With  this  scanty  addition  to  their  knowledge 
the  scouts  made  up  their  bed  in  front  of  the  stove 
and  went  to  sleep.  Sid  was  first  up  in  the  morn- 
ing and  fetched  water  from  the  two  barrels  out- 
side, wood  from  the  pile  of  carbonized  yucca, 


Treasure  in  the  Air  151 

and  started  the  fire.  When  Mrs.  Thomson  ap- 
peared the  kettle  was  boiling  and  Sid  had  quietly 
added  some  of  his  own  store  to  her  slender 
provision  for  breakfast.  After  the  meal  he  drew 
Angel  outside. 

"It's  up  to  us  to  catch  her  burros  and  haul  her 
some  water,"  he  announced. 

"Sure." 

"She  goes  clear  to  Tilghman's  for  water." 

"It'll  take  us  all  day." 

Sid  nodded.  "It's  bitterly  cold  and  she's 
nearly  out  of  wrater." 

So  they  spent  the  day  going  with  the  light 
wagon  and  the  burros  seven  miles  to  a  well  and 
filling  the  barrels.  They  got  back  at  dusk.  Mrs. 
Tomson  welcomed  them  joyfully. 

"You  don't  know  what  a  blessing  you  boys 
have  been!"  she  told  them. 

After  supper  the  Widow  confided  that  she 
thought  often  of  making  a  search  for  the  lost 
mine. 

"When  my  husband  died  he  left  it  to  me  in  a 
will,"  she  informed  them.  "He  was  very  careful 
that  way.  But  of  course  as  nobody  knows  where 


152  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

it  is  it  doesn't  help  me  any.  But  I  kind  of  feel 
Ben  wanted  me  to  have  it,  and  I've  hankered 
lately  to  traipse  off  by  myself  and  try  to  see 
where  it  could  be." 

Sid  found  courage  to  unfold  his  long-thought- 
out  plan.  "If  we  had  anything  to  go  on,  we'd 
help,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Tomson  nodded.  "If  you  would,  it  u'd 
help  me  a  lot.  You  see,  I  can't  very  well  leave 
home  for  long.  And  the  burros  are  slow  and  I'm 
not  very  strong.  Anyway,  it's  a  very  long  dis- 


tance." 


"How  far?"  Sid  inquired. 

Mrs.  Tomson  only  knew  that  her  husband  had 
gone  by  way  of  Victorville — twenty-four  miles 
— and  thence  north  for  an  unknown  distance. 

The  scouts  discussed  this  in  low  tones.  Mrs. 
Tomson  knitted  comfortably,  dreaming  of  the 
lost  wealth. 

Presently  Sid  said:  "If  you  had  any  clues  at 
all  for  us  to  go  on,  ma'am.  We  both  live  over 
on  the  river  and  we  have  lots  of  time  to  go 
exploring." 


Treasure  In  the  Air  153 

The  widow  looked  up.  "I'll  just  show  you 
what  I  have,"  she  remarked.  "I  never  showed  it 
to  anybody,  for  maybe  it's  nothing  at  all.  Peo- 
ple mightn't  understand,  or  think  that  my  hus- 
band was  foolish." 

She  went  into  the  other  room  and  brought  out 
a  worn  notebook.  "This  was  the  book  he  al- 
ways carried,"  she  remarked.  "It  was  found  on 
him  when  they  picked  him  up." 

Eagerly  the  two  boys  scanned  the  little  vol- 
ume. They  quickly  saw  that  it  consisted  mostly 
of  memoranda  about  feed,  various  weeks'  earn- 
ings in  San  Bernardino,  grocery  lists,  and  so  on. 
But  on  the  very  last  page  were  set  down  a  few 
figures,  scrawled  across  the  page. 

The  boys  bent  over  this  intently. 

"Looks  like  it  was  written  in  a  hurry,  Angel!" 

"Shaky!"  Child  replied. 

"Just  figures!"  Sid  added  disappointedly,  and 
turned  to  Mrs.  Tomson. 

"Do  you  know  what  these  figures  are  about, 
ma'am?" 

Mrs.  Tomson  took  the  book  and  studied  the 


154  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

page  curiously.  "I  wish  I  knew!"  she  sighed. 
"Looks  to  me  like  it  was  written  at  the  last — a 
kind  of  message  he  wanted  me  to  get,  and  didn't 
want  other  people  to  read.  But  I  never  could 
make  it  out." 

Sid  copied  the  figures  carefully,  just  as  they 
were  set  down,  and  studied  them  with  his  head 
cocked  on  one  side. 

NE^E  25.32— 25.10— 24.90— 24.98— 24.65- 
18-1-18. 

"Whatever  they  mean,  they're  not  plain,"  he 
murmured. 

Mrs.  Tomson  came  and  bent  over  the  boys' 
shoulders. 

"I've  fussed  over  those  numbers  till  I'm 
dizzy,"  she  confessed.  "It's  just  like  Ben  to  put 
down  things  like  that  and  expect  me  to  under- 
stand them." 

"You  think  he  wrote  this  down  for  informa- 
tion as  to  where  the  mine  was?"  Angel  inquired 
doubtfully. 

"It's  the  last  thing  he  wrote  in  that  book," 


Treasure  in  the  Air  155 

Mrs.  Tomson  said,  and  her  logic  appealed  to 
both  scouts. 

Sid  ventured  further.  "Did  Mr.  Tomson  have 
anything  that  might  tell  about  this?"  he  asked 
slowly.  "Was  anything  else  found  by  his  side?" 

The  widow  walked  to  the  other  room  with  a 
mild  "I'll  just  let  you  see  all  there  was." 

She  came  back  with  a  tattered  buckskin 
"poke"  tied  with  a  thong  of  leather.  She  emptied 
its  contents  on  the  table  and  both  scouts  examined 
the  little  array  of  trifles  curiously.  There  was 
a  good-knife,  a  smashed  cheap  watch,  a  whistle,  a 
bent  and  broken  brass  case,  like  half  of  a  watch 
case,  and  several  stray  springs,  screws,  and  so  on. 
Mrs.  Thomson  peered  at  these  articles  and  said 
quietly,  "They  got  broken  up,  I  reckon." 

Sid  touched  the  brass  case  with  the  tip  of  his 
finger.  "What  was  this?" 

Mrs.  Tomson  replied  that  it  was  what  was  left 
of  his  compass.  "He  always  carried  one." 

Sid  nodded.  "But  compasses  don't  have 
springs  and  screws,  ma'am.  Did  he  have  another 
watch?" 


156  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

Mrs.  Tomson  again  looked  down  at  the  little 
pattern  these  things  made  on  the  table. 

"Now  I  declare!"  she  remarked.  "I  almost 
forgot!  I  told  Ben  that  morning  he  left  that  I 
was  sure  it  was  going  to  storm,  and  he  cried  back 
that  he  had  taken  his  pocket  barometer.  Prob- 
ably that  was  smashed,  too." 

Further  questions  elicited  the  fact  that  the 
prospector's  body  had  been  discovered  five  miles 
from  Stoddard's  Well,  and  on  a  trail  leading 
into  the  valley  west  of  Rodman  Mountain — a 
drear  and  desolate  part  of  the  Mojave. 

The  scouts  had  to  be  satisfied  with  this  in- 
formation, and  the  next  morning,  after  cutting 
enough  wood  to  last  Mrs.  Tomson  for  a  couple 
of  weeks,  they  went  to  Victorville  and  so  home, 
getting  a  lift  for  the  last  twenty  miles  on  a  pass- 
ing bee  man's  car.  On  their  return  home  they 
reported  with  some  chagrin  the  result  of  their 
queries. 

"It  simply  adds  to  the  mystery,"  Mr.  Moul- 
ton  said.  "But  there  is  one  thing  I'd  take  as 
sure,  and  that  is  that  old  Ben  Tomson  didn't 


Treasure  In  the  Air  157 

write  those  figures  down  simply  as  pastime.  He 
meant  them  to  tell  something.  You  say  there 
were  no  other  figures  like  them  in  the  book,  and 
that  these  were  on  the  last  page  he  ever  wrote 
on?  All  right.  I  argue  that  they  were  his  last 
words.  He  evidently  thought  his  wife  would 
understand  them." 

Sid  pondered  this  several  days,  and  at  the 
end  of  that  time  went  to  Angel's  home  and 
brought  the  matter  up  again. 

"That  NEV2E  is  simple  enough,"  he  re- 
marked. "It's  a  compass  direction." 

"From  where?"  Child  asked  promptly. 

Sid  scowled  at  the  figures  he  had  copied. 
"That's  a  puzzle." 

"Suppose  we  found  out  where  he  started 
from — what  do  the  other  figures  stand  for?" 

Moulton  was  not  to  be  stumped.  "I  say  we  go 
to  where  they  found  the  body  and  have  a  look- 
see.  We  can  scout  around  there  and  maybe 
find  out  something." 

This  trip  was  made  in  good  weather.  Spring 
was  beginning  to  soften  the  air.  The  desert  was 


158  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

slowly  but  surely  turning  to  a  faint  green  where 
the  innumerable  plants  .and  grasses  began  to 
sprout  again  for  their  brief  period.  The  moun- 
tains were  tinged  with  verdure  also,  and  the 
Mojave  River  valley  was  almost  verdant.  The 
scouts  made  the  trip  to  Stoddard's  Well  without 
incident,  found  the  rough,  untraveled  road  that 
led  towards  Rodman  Mountain,  and  carefully 
traversed  the  five  miles  they  had  been  told  in- 
tervened between  the  Well — a  little  spring  run- 
ning into  a  tank — and  the  spot  they  sought. 

They  knew  it  instantly  by  the  whitening  bones 
of  the  burro.  Vulture,  buzzard,  and  coyote  had 
done  their  work  well.  Nothing  remained  but  the 
skeleton. 

"It's  going  to  be  pretty  hard  to  pick  up  the 
man's  trail  after  a  year,"  Angel  remarked 
dubiously. 

"It  is,  but  I  think  we  can  make  a  try  at  it," 
Sid  answered.  "In  the  first  place,  I  am  going 
on  the  guess  that  Ben  Tomson  wrote  those  fig- 
ures while  he  was  going  in.  What  they  stand 


Treasure  in  the  Air  159 

for,  I'm  not  sure  yet.  But  I  have  a  kind  of  sus- 
picion. You  know  he  had  a  barometer.  The 
pieces  were  in  that  poke.  That  means  the 
barometer  was  smashed  in  the  explosion,  what- 
ever it  was.  But  he  used  it.  He  took  it  with  him 
for  some  purpose.  Let's  scout  around  carefully." 

They  spent  half  the  remaining  hours  of  the 
day  and  found  nothing,  except  that  the  road 
seemed  to  go  on  indefinitely  in  a  noitheasterly 
direction,  as  they  assured  themselves  with  their 
compasses.  That  night  they  made  camp  by  the 
tank  and  slept  soundly. 

Early  in  the  morning  Sid  suggested  that  they 
follow  the  road  carefully  towards  the  mountain. 
They  consulted  their  map  and  decided  to  try  to 
reach  Le  Conti  Springs,  as  marked  down. 

They  traversed  several  miles  when  Sid  picked 
up  a  bit  of  paper.  It  was  almost  too  torn  to  han- 
dle, but  one  edge  of  it  was  unmistakably  burnt. 
They  studied  it  and  saw  that  it  had  been  writ- 
ten on.  What  the  writing  was  none  could  ever 
say  now,  for  it  was  blurred  beyond  making  out. 


160  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"We'll  take  it  as  a  hint  that  we're  on  the  right 
trail,"  Angel  agreed.  "It  might  have  been 
scorched  in  that  explosion  they  tell  about." 

At  what  they  figured  was  ten  miles,  in  a  deep 
barranca,  they  found  a  miner's  rusted  pan,  a 
bursted  canteen,  and  a  leather  strap.  They  gath- 
ered these  up  and  went  on.  They  found  nothing 
more,  except  that  at  thirteen  miles  the  road 
ceased  to  run  northeast  and  turned  directly  east. 
Here  they  camped,  drinking  out  of  their  full 
canteens  and  eating  cold  bread  and  butter. 

The  next  morning  Sid  seemed  much  excited. 
He  had  evidently  reached  a  conclusion.  Angel 
asked  him  many  questions  but  got  unsatisfactory 
answers. 

"I'm  scared  in  my  own  mind  that  it  isn't  pos- 
sible, Angel,"  Sid  told  him  after  a  while. 
"We've  got  to  go  back  to  Victorville  to  find  out. 
The  only  thing  sure  in  my  mind  is  that  those 
figures  are  barometer  figures." 

"Huh!  I  know  what  a  barometer's  like,"  An- 
gel Child  replied  scornfully.  "And  no  barome- 
ter I  ever  saw  would  change  a  lot  in  one  day." 


Treasure  in  the  Air  161 

Sid  grinned.  "I  studied  barometers  last  year 
when  I  was  on  the  Oregon  coast,"  he  responded. 
"They  do  change,  and  people  use  'em  for  other 
things  than  to  find  out  what  the  weather  will 
be." 

He  would  say  nothing  more.  They  went  back 
to  Victorville  and  Sid  began  a  series  of  visits 
which  resulted  in  his  confiding  to  his  brother 
scout  that  he  now  had  the  information  he  was 
after.  They  went  down  the  river  half  a  mile 
and  camped  under  the  cottonwoods.  After  sup- 
per Sid  brought  out  his  figures  and  they  studied 
them  by  the  light  of  the  fire. 

NE%E  25.32—25.10—24.90—24.98  —  24.65 
18-1-18  Sid  wrote  down  carefully. 

"NE%E  is  the  compass  direction  where  the 
road  turns  to  the  east.  It  means  that  right  at 
that  turn  we  go  on  northeast  a  half  east,  as 
railors  say." 

"That's  right  up  a  hill,"  Angel  interposed. 

Sid  nodded.  "I  went  to  the  cement  plant  and 
asked  Mr.  Taylor  about  a  barometer.  They  use 
them  in  the  plant.  He  told  me  a  barometer 


162  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

registers  differently  the  higher  above  the  sea  one 
gets.  He  gave  me  a  table." 

The  scout  brought  out  a  bit  of  paper  written 
over  with  carefully  made  figures.  Angel  stared 
at  it  and  began  to  understand.  This  is  what  he 
read  : 

"When  the  barometer  at  sea-level  marks  30 
inches,  it  marks: 

29.92  inches  at  68.9  feet  elevation  above  sea  level — 

29.52  at  416.7  feet 

29. 13  at  767.7  feet 

28.74  at  1122.1  feet 

28.35  at  1486.2  feet 

27.95  at  1850.4  feet 

27.55  at  2224.5  feet 

27. 16  at  2599.7  feet 

26.77  at  2962.1  feet 

26.38  at  3369.5  feet 

25.98  at  3763.2  feet 

25.59  at  4163.3  feet 

25. 19  at  4568.3  feet 

24.80  at  4983.1  feet 

24.41  at  5403.2  feet. 

"So  you  see  when  Ben  Tomson  marked  down 
barometer  heights,  he  marked  down  elevations, 
as  well,"  Sid  went  on  excitedly.  "That  means, 
he  wanted  us  to  go  northeast  a  half  east  first  till 


Treasure  in  the  Air  163 

we  reached  where  the  barometer  said  25.10,  then 
to  where  it  said  24.90,  and  so  on.  We're  to  stop 
when  we  get  to  where  the  barometer  marks 
24.65." 

Angel  nodded  and  took  the  pencil  and  looked 
at  the  table.  "There's  no  24.65  on  that  table,"  he 
said  suddenly. 

Sid  laughed.  "You  calculate  how  much  it 
goes  down  for  every  hundred  feet  and  figure 
that  way.  The  difference  between  4983  and  5403 
is  420  feet,  so  the  final  spot,  where  the  barome- 
ter registers  24.65,  would  be  about  161  feet 
higher  than  at  24.80,  or  5145  feet." 

"That's  higher  than  Rodman  Mountain  is,  or 
any  other  in  sight  that  way,"  Angel  objected. 

"So  it  is.  That  stumped  me  at  first,  specially 
remembering  what  Mrs.  Tomson  said  about  her 
husband's  remarking  that  'It  was  in  the  air.' 
That  height  would  be  two  hundred  feet  in  the 
air,  wouldn't  it?" 

Both  scouts  laughed.  But  Angel  became  seri- 
ous again.  "It  kind  of  throws  your  barometer 
figures  out  of  the  question,"  he  said.  "You  went 


164  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

off  on  a  false  scent  and  we're  no  nearer  to  find- 
ing the  old  lady's  fortune  than  we  were  before." 

Sid  nodded.  "I  thought  so,  too.  But  old  Ben 
Tomson  was  careful.  You  remember  what  his 
widow  said  about  it's  being  stormy  that  week? 
Well,  they  found  his  body  on  the  twenty-fifth  of 
January,  1918.  See  those  last  figures  he  wrote 
down?" 

Sid  laid  his  fingers  on  them: 

18-1-18. 

"Eighteenth  of  January,  1918!"  Angel  cried 
admiringly. 

Sid  laughed.  "Easy,  isn't  it?  Well,  we  both 
know  that  the  barometer  rises  and  falls  accord- 
ing to  the  weather,  don't  we?  I  went  to  Mr. 
Marshall,  the  weather  observer  in  Victorville, 
and  got  the  barometer  reading  for  the  18th  of 
January,  1918."  Sid  flourished  the  paper  trium- 
phantly in  the  firelight. 

"The  barometer  that  day  registered  29.64." 

"Victorville  is  twenty-eight  hundred  feet 
above  sea  level,"  Angel  responded  scornfully. 
"How  could  the  barometer  mark  that  high?" 


Treasure  in  the  Air  165 

"The  government  reduces  all  its  marks  to  sea 
level,"  Sid  went  on.  "In  other  words,  the  day 
Ben  Tomson  made  these  figures,  the  weather  was 
bad  and  the  barometer  registered  thirty-six  hun- 
dredths  below.  We  add  thirty-six  hundredths 
to  Tomson's  figures  and  we  get  the  right  ones.'* 

"I  see,"  Angel  replied  quietly  and  set  to  figur- 
ing again.  The  result  of  his  reckonings  was  this : 

25. 10  equals  25.46 

24.90  equals  25.26 

24.98  equals  25.34 

24.65  equals  25.01 

Taking  these  Sid  followed  them  out,  and 
wrote  down  the  following  elevations : 

25.46  is  4295  feet  high 

25.26  is  4496  feet  high 

25.34  is  4418  feet  high 

25.01  is  4748  feet  high 

"The  mountain  is  4825  feet  high,  according  to 
the  maps,"  Sid  remarked.  "You  see?  We  turn 
northeast  a  half  east  where  the  road  bends,  go 
in  that  direction  till  we  get  4295  feet  high,  then 
to  a  point  two  hundred  feet  higher,  then  down 
seventy  feet,  then  to  that  last  point." 

"That  looks  all  right,"  Angel  remarked.  "But 


166  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

how  are  we  to  know  when  we  get  to  those 
heights?" 

Sid  pulled  out  a  leather  case  and  showed  a 
neat  barometer.  "I  borrowed  that.  In  the  morn- 
ing we  get  Mr.  Marshall's  weather  reading. 
Then  we  know  what  to  add  or  subtract  and  we'll 
use  the  barometer.  It's  like  a  compass  for  up 
and  down,  isn't  it?" 

They  went  over  their  calculations  again  be- 
fore going  to  sleep  and  bright  dawn  found  them 
ready  for  their  start.  They  got  their  barometric 
correction,  which  was,  the  observer  told  them, 
practically  nothing  on  that  day,  and  started  out. 
At  noon  they  reached  Stoddard's  Well  and 
turned  off  on  the  Rodman  Mountain  road.  At 
dusk  they  reached  the  point  where  they 
had  decided  Ben  Tomson  had  left  this  road. 
There  they  camped. 

The  next  morning  they  duly  passed  the  burro's 
skeleton  and  began  their  ascent  of  the  rugged 
peak  that  rose  into  the  blue  without  tree  or  vege- 
tation. At  noon  they  reached  the  point  where 
their  barometer  marked  25.46.  It  was  a  granite 


Treasure  in  the  Air  167 

spur.  A  few  feet  further  up  Sid  stooped  and 
picked  up  a  bit  of  glass. 

"He  came  this  way,"  he  remarked. 

A  half  hour  more  brought  them  upon  a  ledge 
where  the  barometer  marked  25.26  inches. 
Here  they  paused.  Ahead  of  them  the  moun- 
tains rose  steeply. 

"That  stops  us,"  Angel  said.  "Not  even  a 
burro  could  climb  that." 

Sid  nodded,  "Ben  Tomson's  direction  read  to 
go  downward  seventy  feet." 

"That's  backwards,"  Child  remonstrated. 

"That's  so,"  Sid  said,  consulting  his  figures 
again.  There  was  no  help  there.  The  two  scouts 
stared  around  curiously.  Behind  them  was  the 
hot,  waterless  declivity  they  had  so  painfully 
come  up.  Before  them  was  the  almost  impass- 
able face  of  the  peak.  Hut  presently  both  turned 
and  grinned  at  each  other. 

"To  the  right,  Sid?" 

"We'll  try  that  first,"  was  the  reply. 

They  made  their  way  along  the  little  ledge  on 
which  they  stood  for  a  hundred  yards.  Here  a 


168  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

deep  cleft  in  the  side  of  the  mountain  led 
downward  for  a  distance.  It  was  by  no  means 
easy  going,  but  they  managed  it  and  came  to  a 
stand  in  the  hot,  breathless  air  of  the  crevasse. 
Sid  consulted  his  barometer. 

"Exactly  25.34." 

"Now  to  go  up  three  hundred  and  thirty  feet," 
Angel  replied. 

They  looked  ahead  and  saw  that  the  cleft  in 
the  mountainside  began  to  ascend  again.  Pos- 
sibly a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  it  ended  in  a  kind 
of  box  canyon  above  which  the  peak  went  sheer 
up. 

They  made  the  trip  and  tested  the  elevation 
again. 

"We've  arrived,"  Sid  remarked  grimly.  "This 
is  where  Ben  Tomson  found  his  mine." 

"Let's  look  around  carefully,"  Angel  an- 
swered, and  began  to  examine  the  rather  level 
floor  of  the  little  canyon.  Presently  he  stooped 
and  cried  out,  "Here's  somebody's  hat — all 
scorched  and  burnt."  There  was  no  answer.  He 
looked  around  for  Sid.  That  scout  was  standing 


Treasure  in  the  Air  169 

in  the  shadow  of  the  rock,  staring  upward  and 
heedless  of  his  companion's  cry. 

Child  repeated  his  call  and  his  discovery. 
Still  no  response  came  from  Sid  Moulton.  An- 
gel, the  old  hat  in  hand,  retraced  his  steps  and 
joined  his  brother  scout.  He,  too,  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  great  rocky  wall  that  towered  above 
them. 

"What  is  it?"  he  whispered. 

Sid  kept  his  eyes  focused  on  something  invis- 
ible above  them.  "You  remember  what  Mrs. 
Tomson  said  her  husband  had  told  her  about 
their  fortune  'being  in  the  air'?  It's  true." 

"But  I  don't  see  anything!"  the  other  retorted. 
•Then  he  drew  closer  to  Sid.  "Yes,  I  do,  too." 
His  voice  fell  to  a  mere  gasp,  "What  is  it,  Sid?" 

The  scout  shook  a  little,  breathing  fast.  "It's 
— it's  what  killed  Ben  Tomson,"  he  muttered. 

The  air  above  them  seemed  to  whirl  and  bub- 
ble against  the  intense  blue  of  the  speckless  sky, 
to  pour  upward  in  a  dizzy  whirl  of  thin,  almost 
invisible  vapor.  Now  and  again  this  vapor 


170  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

seemed  to  assume  for  an  instant  a  shape,  porten- 
tous and  malign.  Again  it  dissolved  and  became 
invisible.  The  sweat  stood  out  on  the  scouts' 
faces.  Their  listening  ears  caught  an  almost  im- 
perceptible sound,  a  wavering  whisper,  coming 
from  some  profound  and  suffering  throat.  The 
canyon  was  filled  with  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

Backwards,  step  by  step,  the  two  boys  with- 
drew, sliding  their  feet  along  the  sandy  surface, 
feeling  behind  them  with  outstretched  arms. 
They  came  to  the  brink  and  knelt,  their  eyes  still 
fixed  on  the  mysterious  wavering  shadow  that 
filled  the  hollow  well  of  the  great  fissure.  Then 
they  slipped  down  and  out  of  the  place.  They 
raced  down  the  declivity  and  only  paused  when 
they  reached  the  elevation  on  the  western  side. 
There  they  stood  and  peered  back  into  the 
chasm.  They  saw  nothing. 

With  a  gulp  Child  held  up  the  old,  charred 
felt  hat. 

"It  got  him!' 

Sid  nodded.  In  silence  they  retraced  their  way 
to  the  foot  of  the  mountain  and  made  camp. 


Treasure  in  the  Air  [17JO 

They  found  that  they  were  building  their  fire  on 
a  spot  where  another  fire  had  been  built  long 
before. 

Grimly  they  stared  at  each  other. 

Sid  laughed.  "It  got  our  goats,  all  right. 
What  did  Tomson  mean  when  he  told  his  wife 
there  was  'a  fortune  in  the  air'?" 

Angel  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know.  Do 
you?" 

"No.  But  it's  up  to  us  to  stick  this  out.  We've 
come  so  far  we  can't  turn  back  now" 

From  up  the  crevasse  came  a  faint  whispering 
cigh,  echoing  lightly  in  the  dusk.  A  hot  breath 
eddied  about  them.  They  sniffed  it  and  picked 
up  their  kits  and  kicked  the  fire  out,  to  the  last 
spark. 

"By  Jiminy,  so  that's  it!"  Sid  muttered. 

"Who'd  have  guessed?"  Angel  Child  re- 
turned. "Lucky  we  found  out  in  time.  We'd 
have  gone  the  way  old  Ben  Tomson  did." 

"We'll  make  camp  away  below,"  Sid  agreed. 

After  supper,  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain, the  scouts  went  over  the  day's  experiences. 


172  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

.They  felt  that  they  had  solved  the  mystery 
of  the  figures  which  the  old  prospector  had  en- 
tered in  his  notebook  before  he  met  his  death. 
Every  barometric  reckoning  had  been  verified, 
as  well  as  the  compass  course.  And  what  seemed 
to  add  the  convincing  proof  to  their  solution  was 
the  undebatable  fact  that  none  of  these  calcu- 
lations would  have  come  out  unless  they  had  had 
the  key  figures  18-1-18,  the  date  that  Tomson 
had  made  his  final  observations. 

But  the  fortune  which  the  miner  had  boasted 
to  have  discovered  was  another  matter.  They 
had  found  that  his  words  to  his  wife  about  it 
"being  in  the  air"  had  a  very  real  meaning — and 
a  sinister  one. 

"He  came  up  here  and  saw  what  we  saw  and 
examined  it  in  safety,"  Sid  argued.  "He  evi- 
dently heard  what  we  heard  and  saw  more  than 
we  saw.  For  some  reason  he  got  away  safely. 
He  knew  where  it  was.  He  wasn't  so  sure  as  he 
might  have  been,  of  course.  But  he  was  mighty 
certain  he  knew  what  that  thing  was.  He  went 
home  and  got  more  grub  and  supplies  and  came 
back  here  secretly." 


Treasure  in  the  Air  173 

"His  making  those  figures  to  tell  his  road  and 
its  location  shows  he  was  afraid  somebody  else 
might  run  on  to  it,"  Angel  Child  put  in. 

"Sure.  He  wrote  it  down  in  a  way  he  thought 
no  one  would  puzzle  it  out — or  think  anything 
about  it.  But  he  must  have  thought  Mrs.  Tom- 
son  would  know." 

"I  don't  believe  he  wrote  that  for  her  benefit," 
Child  responded.  "It  was  merely  by  chance  that 
the  book  was  on  him  when  he  got  killed." 

"That  sounds  reasonable,"  Sid  admitted.  "But 
just  the  same  he  got  here  safely  on  his  second 
trip,  and  spent  some  time  here  before  it — it  got 
him." 

The  other  scout  peered  at  his  comrade  through 
the  dim  light  given  by  their  little  fire. 

"Have  you  a  name  for  'It'?" 

"You  smelt  it?"  Sid  demanded. 

"I  smelt  something — queer." 

"So  did  I,"  Sid  confessed.  "Something  awful. 
Kind  of  hot  and  dizzying,  wasn't  it?" 

"And  sickening,"  Child  added.   "Poisonous." 

"That's  the  way  it  struck  me,"  Sid  went  on. 


174  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

"But  we've  got  to  remember  that  Ben  Tomson 
wasn't  poisoned.  He  was  blown  up." 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  he  knew  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  air,  and  had  an  idea  what  it  was," 
Child  insisted,  turning  on  his  back  and  staring 
at  the  stars.  "Then  it  got  him.  It's  funny." 

"It's  worse  than  funny,"  Sid  said  seriously. 
"And  we've  got  to  solve  it.  We've  got  to  finish 
this  job.  If  there's  treasure  here,  it  belongs  to 
Mrs.  Tomson,  and  we  must  tell  her." 

"We'd  better  get  some  sleep,  Sid,"  Angel  re- 
marked, yawning. 

But  an  hour  later  both  confessed  that  sleep 
was  impossible.  The  moon  was  rising  and  flood- 
ing the  desert  below  them  with  silver  liquid 
light.  It  lay  in  great  pools  here  and  there,  with 
the  greasewood  and  an  occasional  yucca  palm 
standing  out  as  if  from  a  lake. 

"I  say  we  go  back  there  and  scout  around," 
Sid  suggested. 

"All  right,"  said  the  other.  "We  don't  need 
any  light." 

They  went  back  the  hard  road  they  had  found, 
slipped  into  the  gash,  went  down  its  slope  and 


Treasure  in  the  Air  175 

then  up  again  to  the  main  fissure.  But  the 
moment  they  entered  it  both  boys  drew  back 
hurriedly. 

"Gas!"  Sid  shouted. 

When  they  were  safely  out  of  it  they  tried  for 
some  other  way  to  get  near  the  fissure.  At  last, 
by  scaling  the  precipitous  wall  of  the  mountain 
they  managed  to  crawl  up  where  they  could 
make  it  over  the  rocks  to  the  edge  of  the  cavern 
and  look  down.  They  saw  nothing.  There  was 
no  odor,  except  a  faint  one  which  they  could 
not  identify. 

But  presently  Sid  laughed  and  poked  Child  in 
the  rib.  "Feel  this  low  brush?"  he  asked.  "It's 
all  charred.  That's  the  smell  here." 

"What  we  smelled  down  below  was  gas," 
Angel  retorted. 

"You're  right." 

"And  gas  isn't  a  fortune,  Sid." 

"It  explodes  if  one  strikes  a  match  in  it,"  was 
the  reply.  "Suppose  that's  what  Ben  Tomson 
did?" 

"Of  course!"  Child  responded  eagerly.  "Gas 
mixed  with  air  will  explode.  It  blew  him  and 


176  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

his  burro  pretty  much  up ;  but  they  were  able  to 
travel  down  as  far  as  they  got  where  they  found 
them." 

"An  explosion  like  that  would  probably  blind 
Tomson." 

"Suppose  he  got  hold  of  the  burro  and  it 
guided  him  down  so  far,  and  then  died,  and  left 
him  to  wander  in  a  circle?" 

Sid  thought  this  over.  "Could  be,  but  we 
don't  know.  Anyway,  we've  found  gas.  Bu)t 
where's  the  fortune?" 

"Let's  go  down  and  get  some  sleep,  Sid." 

They  returned  to  camp  much  relieved  and 
slept  soundly.  In  the  morning  they  cautiously 
revisited  the  chasm.  Both  boys  saw  the  truth, 
that  the  hot  sun  evaporated  the  heavy  gas  so  that 
it  poured  upward  like  a  kind  of  half-visible 
vapor,  or  steam.  During  the  night  the  cold  gas 
settled  in  the  cavern. 

"Now  the  thing  to  do  is  to  find  out  where  the 
gas  comes  from,"  Sid  remarked.  "It  doesn't 
come  from  the  bottom,  or  we'd  be  smothered  in 
it.  It  must  issue  from  the  rock  part  way  up." 

Both  lads  stared  curiously  at  the  rugged  rock 


Treasure  in  the  Air  177 

wall  and  finally  agreed  that  the  gas  must  come 
out  of  a  small  slit  in  the  mountain  about  ten  feet 
above  them,  where  a  shelf  offered  foothold. 

"One  of  us  must  get  up  and  make  sure,"  Sid 
said.  "And  it's  not  safe,  either.  If  one  got  a 
good  whiff  of  that  stuff  he'd  fall,  sure." 

They  figured  on  this  a  while  and  then  with 
their  scout  axes  began  to  make  steps  in  the  shelf. 
An  hour's  work  in  the  cracked,  crumbling  rock 
finished  this  job  and  Sid  went  up  and  lifted  his 
head  above  the  shelf.  He  stayed  some  moments, 
then  came  down. 

"It's  there,  all  right,"  he  told  his  companion. 
"But  what  it  is,  stumps  me." 

Angel  Child  made  the  trip  and  returned  with 
no  helpful  suggestion  except  that  there  was  a 
kind  of  tarry  pool  there.  "Maybe  it's  some  kind 
of  liquid  that  is  valuable,"  he  said.  "We  could 
fill  an  old  tin  can  with  it  and  take  it  home  for  a 
specimen." 

They  decided  on  this,  filled  a  tin,  and  carefully 
packed  it  away. 

"Now  for  home,"  Sid  remarked.  "We  can  do 


178  Scouts  of  the  Desert 

nothing  more  till  we  know  what  this  stuff  is." 

They  reached  Helen's  Station  the  next  eve- 
ning and  parted  cheerfully. 

"I'll  have  Uncle  Joe  get  it  analyzed,"  Sid  said. 
"If  it's  worth  while  I'll  let  you  know  and  we'll 
go  back  to  Town  Eight  West  and  Four  North 
and  notify  Mrs.  Tomson  that  her  husband  left 
her  some  fortune,  anyway." 

Mr.  Moulton  received  Sid's  story  quietly  and 
when  it  was  ended  asked  to  see  the  sample.  Sid 
produced  it.  His  uncle  smelt  it,  tasted  it,  and 
then  laughed  heartily. 

"Did  I — were  we  foolish?"  Sid  stammered. 

Mr.  Moulton  grew  serious  instantly.  "I 
should  say  not,"  he  remarked.  "You  solved  the 
riddle  Ben  Tomson  set  us  all,  and  you  did  more 
than  that — you've  laid  the  foundations  of  his 
widow's  fortune.  It  may  mean  an  immense 
amount  of  wealth  to  all  of  us.  You've  discov- 
ered what  thousands  are  spending  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  dollars  to  find — oil." 

"Oil!"  Sid  said,  with  shining  eyes. 

"Oil,"  his  uncle  replied.  "You  have  repeated 
Ben  Tomson's  discovery:  first  natural  gas 


Treasure  in  the  Air  179 

(which  caused  his  death  when  he  struck  a  match 
in  it)  and  then  an  oil  seepage.  That  means  that 
some  company  will  buy  Mrs.  Tomson's  right  to 
it  for  a  huge  sum.  But,  first,  we  must  say  noth- 
ing to  anybody,  for  the  law  gives  first  right  to  the 
first  one  who  files.  We'll  take  the  car  to-night, 
get  Angel  Child,  and  see  the  widow.  To-morrow 
I'll  take  her  to  San  Bernardino  and  get  the 
papers  properly  made  out.  Meanwhile,  not  a 
word!" 

When  all  was  done  and  Victorville  was  in  a 
tumult  over  the  new  oil  strike,  Sid  and  his 
brother  scout  found  themselves  the  proud  pos- 
sessors of  new  and  improved  barometers,  pre- 
sented to  them  by  the  grateful  widow  of  the 
miner  whose  secret  they  had  unraveled. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


